


Communicatively Errored, I Am

by AlphaRetard



Series: Communicatively Errored, I Am [1]
Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:48:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 60,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27815587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaRetard/pseuds/AlphaRetard
Series: Communicatively Errored, I Am [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035309





	1. I Didn’t Decide to Speak Until Sixteen Years Later

I've known a decent amount since I was a cub. Not in a sense where I know a lot of stuff but in a way that makes me understand a lot of things. Not knowledge but practical things, like how I know my parents still love me even if I'm born from a test tube. Like how my parents still love me even if they weren't there most of the time.

So when other kids are crying back at nursery school because their parents forgot to slice the crusts off their favorite sandwich, I was happy with a paste filled bun brought from the nearby convenience store. That, to me is enough proof that they love me enough to have me fed.

I wasn't very talkative too. I didn't really like opening my mouth and making out words. Never felt comfortable with it. So I learned to talk minimalistically. Say only the essential and don't say anything else. Everyone but my parents think I was a silent child. I can talk to you just fine, I just don't really enjoy anything beyond the fine line of chatting and gossiping.

So I've been known as the silent kid. People just acknowledge me, and they move on with others. I was never the center of attention back then, so I always watched. Stared at the kids who were.

I became observant when middle school came along. I've started noticing people around me. Noticing their expressions and their words; taking mental notes as they went about with their daily lives. I soon begin to know them better than their friends do. I can tell whether someone's uncomfortable with a subject; or that if somebody's lying. Understood them better the more they speak. Speech patterns and faces soon became one of my new found skills next to hand to hand combat.

Hand to hand combat I learned when I was watching TV with my dad. He was a wolf like me. A policeman, and he's good at it. Caught several big time criminals and raided more crack houses than my paws could count. We were watching some Judo tournament from years back when he asked me.

"You like this, don't you?"

I looked at him with my scarlet red eyes. I nodded.

"You wanna learn how to fight?"

I nodded.

"Wanna learn how to beat up bad guys?"

I nodded.

"Wanna protect your loved ones?"

Looking back, the question didn't really resonated with me until at least half a decade later. I was thinking of my father, who didn't need much protection and my mother, who had my father. I didn't put much thought to it.

I simply nodded.

I signed up on classes. Not just Judo but many different fighting styles. Shot straight to the top. Turns out I was born with my father's fighting genes. I begin mashing different styles together and not long after, I was already able to throw people to the floor any sweet time I please. Problem is that the civilized world no longer need of fighters, where battles are often fought in courts with lawyers. Go figure.

So I learned how to defend myself from absolutely nothing. Days where cavemen would start swinging at any given impulse and where wars were as common as plagues are gone. Come were sunny skies, fluffy clouds and more drama in the virtual net than a soap opera could cook up in a season. Where words held more power than brute force. Basically, I set myself back by a couple thousand years worth of human evolution where my action spoke louder than words. Not that there's much action to begin with.

It wasn't until half a month where I people finally get a piece of what I was.

For some reason, I was spotted as a target for a pushover. Bullies abound the school premises. There's even a damned hierarchy where a monarchy sat atop an extortion racket. All under the teachers' noses. How it turned out, I don't know. The racket stretched out since the school's early years. Students move in and out. The throne was replaced with a new senior every year. That year belonged to one big sized bear with an egotistical attitude. He came with that attitude and went away without it.

Some henchman spotted me. A silent wolf sitting on his spot right smack in the middle of the class. Introverted. Friendless. No clubs or any of the sort to attend. A perfect target. I got called to the school roof where some mean looking guys pulled me to a wall and demanded some cash for the exchange of mercy for my kneecaps. They even showed me the bat responsible for breaking them, for fear effect.

I understood the extent of my skills and used them moderately. Never show the opposition your full power unless you fully intend to end them once and for all. Even that, I thought it was overkill. I broke a guy's snout so hard he had to had them replaced with iron. He looked like some birthday clown fresh from a food fight. Came back to me another day with vengeance and I sent him off again with a broken rib.

I pissed off the hierarchy and they kept sending guys. All bigger than the previous ones. The staff keep finding heavily injured students on disclosed location around the school. Nobody suspected me. I was slightly tall, average build and basically invisible among a crowd. What they were looking for equated to a giant that weighed at least half a car that can break bones in a single snap. They couldn't get verbal evidence from the injured too. They were either scared to expose the entire racket or were too broken to talk.

The staffs don't know who's doing the injuries. But the hierarchy knew. The more I beat, the more they sent. I remember sending someone to a coma. I pile-drived the poor guy on the train station when he tried to shove me to the tracks. He waited till' the station was empty before going for the act. Unfortunately for him, no witnesses meant no one to call the ambulance for him. I dragged the body behind a pole, away from anybody's sight and boarded the train. It wasn't till' tomorrow when they found an unconscious mongrel clutching his head in a school uniform next to a trash can.

It wasn't long until I met the monarch. He didn't send himself to me, though. It was the other way around. I realized that the constant fear that someone might be striking me from the back got the better of my slipping grades that weren't great to begin with. I went to the boss. He was a bear, stood at least one and a half of my height and as wide as a bus. It happened in a storage room somewhere, where I busted his nose and possibly made him quadriplegic.

I walked out with a broken wrist. He didn't. I made damn sure that he wasn't walking out of anything anytime soon. For that, I couldn't write for a month and flunked my finals. But it was worthy price to pay for eternal assured peace.

It wasn't long until I realized I just took down an entire extortion racket just because they were bugging my ass. So I placed trust in my skills, and became a little bit confident than I was before. I was still that silent kid who doesn't talk much that sat right smack in the middle of the class. But to some I was the kid who snapped their elbows halfway across the joint when they demanded three figures from me.

Then my father died.

He brought a knife to an unexpected gun fight. It was robbery at the local bank. He got shot in the head twice when he tried to take down some guy holding a clerk hostage. It was too dangerous to use his firearm and he was only a good two meters away from the guy, his colleague told me at the funeral. He made a dash and faced the inevitable.

I had one year left before graduating middle school when he died. I went to the funeral dressed in the best suit I could find. It was his. All I had was my school uniforms, a white shirt and jeans.

For some reason I didn't feel sad. I felt glad. Not for me but for my father. He died doing what he did best. I couldn't bring myself to cry. It would be disrespectful for him anyway. The guys who attended the funeral were my father's colleagues. Every single one of them had a genuine expression of gratitude and sadness. They all told me my father died doing the right thing and that he was a good guy and all.

I became independent. My father always told me it was okay to rely on others but it's always best if anybody could live on their own. So I did. I took care of the house. Did the chores. Managed myself. Cooked my meals and washed my clothes. The only help I ever received was financial ones. I was living with my mother, and most of the time she wasn't home. She would leave money in the house whenever she left with a note on how much is for the bills and the groceries and my personal use.

I became used to the lifestyle. I grew accustomed to it. Technically, I wasn't living alone. But there would be times where I go through an entire week without seeing my mother's face once. She leaves early in the morning before dawn and come home when I'm in bed. She was an anchorwoman that worked on irregular times. There would be times where she would be covering news halfway across the globe and times where she would be staying in some war-torn third world country giving people their day by day coverage on how shitty their lives compared to ours.

She was also a cat too.

Nobody ever told me how my parents met. Or why they decided to marry and have a third host to have their child instead of adopting. They never told me and I never asked. I also never got to ask my biological mother either. She died on my birth, and that was something I was grateful for. No point in feeling guilty or sad. A life for a life, that's how the world went along. I inherited my father's everything. His rough fur, his looks, his dark fur and his talent in punching people's faces. I didn't inherit anything from my mother.

Nothing but her quiet personality and her scarlet, red eyes.

Biologically, it would be impossible for me to inherit anything from my mother at all but hell, I did. Ironically, as an anchorwoman, my mother only said what needs saying and spoke of nothing more than the absolute truth. Even during coverage of political rallies. She chose no sides but the middle ground. And because of that, she was the star of her job. Any other time other than on set, she's as quiet as the wind. And I managed to inherit that trait.

I went with my mother at the funeral. People kept commenting on how I looked ghastly similar to my late father. All but my red eyes and my knack of staying silent. My father wasn't chatty, but he hell wasn't as quiet as my mother and I. I didn't reply to them. I simply nodded to their hearty, sad laughter.

Came high school. We moved. Specifically, I moved, separate with my mother. She signed a new contract with another news network and her salary jumped up to six figures. We could afford a lot more than we can before. We moved from our apartment to a villa on a hill. Specifically, we moved, but my mother stayed in the villa.

I ended middle school as in time when my mother got her new job. She had no trouble finding me an expensive private high school with a lot of history and reputation. Problem is that the school was three hours away from the villa my mother stayed. So the dormitory was inevitable. I wasn't complaining. I didn't really liked living in the villa anyway. It was way too high up atop a hill for my liking.

So she did the usual. Send me more money than usual and leave everything to me. I wasn't complaining either. I brought a decent room a quarter hour's walk to school and paid for all my academic materials.

The school started on an annual basis, which meant classes don't start until January. I moved in on November and I used the two months to catch up on my subjects. I liked the new uniform too. It was as black as my fur was black. Unbelievably so. If my eyes weren't red I would've blended with the night effortlessly. My last uniform had a combination of white and blue, making me look like an out-of-place sailor. So this was a nice change.

I decided it was time for change. Friends were on the top of my list. Then I found out that lacking sixteen years worth of communicative experience does something to a guy. I didn't know what to say other than a "hello", "thank you" and "bye". I was back in the same scenario back at middle school. I was that silent wolf in class that, this time, sat at the corner of the class. And that was the extent of what people saw of me. There also wasn't any extortion going on as well. Again, go figure.

The routine repeated itself again. I was watching people. Observing them like before. This time everyone had more problems, more patterns and more drama. Old habits never die, especially if they're three years old.

Then I joined the library committee.

At first, I didn't know what I was doing. I guess I was sick of going back to the dorm everyday with nothing in my hands. Guess I was sick of the cycle. So I joined something that gave me something to do that didn't need much commitment. Thus the Library Committee. Nothing much to be done other than rearranging books and taking care of new stock. The students weren't much readers anyway. But I liked it. It was way better than walking home alone under the evening sky everyday anyway.

That's also how I met Her.

I joined mid January. The Library Committee only had three slots. One of it was taken. The other two were free and I took one of them before anybody else. Turns out it wasn't gonna be taken anytime soon but heck, better early than late. I didn't get interviewed or anything. I was just given a badge, a sheet of paper listing my tasks and I started.

The first day was normal. I registered some books, signed out some more and went back home. I was alone that day. The other guy never showed up. I spent at least three hours on the desk before closing time. I closed later than I was supposed to. Just in case somebody needed a quick book. Nobody came. I shut everything down and called it a day.

The next day went about the same. I brought my homework with me as accompaniment. I signed out some books, registered some more and went back home. I didn't spend any more time than I should there. Learned more about the library's layout while I stayed. It wasn't large, but it was sizable. Enough to store at least one of every genre people needed. Dictionaries, encyclopedias, old classics, recurring series, plays and romantic shorts, you name it. The library has it. Just a shame that most of them were going to fade away and oxidize without getting read again.

I started bringing books home on my fourth day. Thought it was kind to do the books a favor by giving them a read before their eventual, organic expiry date. I figured I'd be here for three years and every book is about as long as a week's worth of reading. I could probably finish up a shelf worth's or two by graduation. Not much but it's an honest work.

Five days went past. Nothing out of the ordinary happened or anything of the sorts. Just people looking for an academic references, people who wanted a place to pass the time and usuals looking to return their rented pages. It wasn't till' the next week when she came.

Somebody needed a reservation for a book. It was the first for the year. It wasn't common when people wanted a book so desperately that they wanted it secured before they could get their hands on it. There wasn't any competition for anything in the library in the first place. But a job is a job, so I did it.

It wasn't too much of a stretch to call the library a maze. Half of the place had no working lights and I swear there's two sides of two pairs of shelves that has the exact same books stored on them. I found it with ease. I had to walk a full round around the library before finding out that the book in question was on the shelf opposite of the counter the entire time.

I stepped up towards the shelf. It had 20 sections stacking on each other. The book requested was on the 19th. And by some sheer dumb luck it was a finger's length to tall for me to reach. And I was slightly taller than average. Which meant I can peek above foreheads and a moviegoer's worst nightmare. But for the first time in my life, I felt mocked. And it's by a damn book on a damn shelf.

But it was also the same book that gave me my first sight in the other side of the world.

I tiptoed and extended my reach for a mere inch. I could grab it with my claws and by some other sheer dumb luck, I filed it smooth the night before because I accidentally torn a page off in a very tense part of a novel. So begun my fruitless attempt at clawing the book down with my butter fingers. It kept slipping as I grabbed, but every attempt, the book slid further outwards, so hope isn't all lost. Then she came.

I didn't hear her coming. Her steps were silent.

I wished I was prepared. Dressed up well for my life changing occasion. In a ballroom, or on top of a hill overlooking the moonlight. But anything else than this wouldn't have the same effect.

I saw her hand reach under my snout. Her long, slim fingers clawed viciously over her angular palms. Her nails were as sharp as claws. Maybe they were claws. I didn't care to find out.

I was surprised by the sudden arm. I took a step back, and my view widened. The hand grabbed the book I needed and retracted. I followed it. The arm was dark green. It was smooth all the way to the elbow cap. White and bony. The top was covered by smooth hair, flowing down to the forearm. It lead to a slender shoulder, arching into a white, buttoned shirt and a bowtie on the middle. The neck emerged above the collar. A dull, bony face shot straight at him, like a spear. The back was covered with more hair, flowing from the top to the sides like a curtain.

She was also very tall. Extremely tall. She was big too. She wasn't fat, she was just large. Like the Eat Me cake from that Wonderland book. A giantess in a world few sizes too small for her.

I was mesmerized at that moment. She was a reptile. A lizard. Probably a hybrid. A lizard with hair on his or her isn't common, and people wanted it to stay that way. Hybrids aren't really welcomed by everyone. They're usually considered inorganic. Manufactured. Mistakes never meant to be made. But it was a mistake I wished never to be corrected.

I stepped back. She stood tall. Very tall. At least half a head higher than me. She wore the school's uniform without the blazer. A large tail swished underneath her skirt from below. Her legs curved outwards as it grew upwards, fitting snugly in the skirt. Her shirt was tucked in, her sizable breasts overflowing within its confines. The buttons were barely doing their job. A red ribbon popped up on the collar nicely. A small tiny pin was on the left side of the collar, symbolizing her part of the Library Committee.

I couldn't see her eyes. She had none. It was probably tucked underneath the hair within her skull somewhere.

I looked dumb. Like retarded dumb. Guy-who-couldn't-crawl-his-way-out-of-a-paper-bag dumb. I was sure I was drooling then.

She handed the book to me with her slender fingers, "Here."

At that moment, something clicked in my mind. Sixteen years of life, and never have somebody came up to me. I was the unwarranted listener. The pair of ears everybody never thought they had. The only one that ever said anything to me was my father and rarely, my mother. But now comes the third person ever in my life to come up to me and say something totally unwarranted. It was but a polite word to say when you give somebody something. But to a man who only had his first step under the conversational spotlight after sixteen years, it does something.

Her voice was melodious to my ears. They were soft. Sympathetic. Light. Soothing. Like they were harps, playing from the clouds above.

I only stared. My arms moved on their own accord. My hands were probably trembling as it rose. I grabbed the book by the tip of my fingers. Her hand retracted as soon as the book was handed.

She adjusted her hair on her snout and pushed it aside. I saw the side of her face. Her jaws were exposed. Completely. I could see the sharp teeth jagging from the sides of her bony mouth. The hair did nothing to hide them. And from that point I was mere moments from losing my knees.

"If you need any help, I'll be at the counter, okay?"

Then something else clicked. I've never needed help. I've always done something by myself. During the extortion racket back in middle school I told no-one about it. When I broke my wrist I didn't go to the doctor's. I was afraid back then. I didn't know what I was afraid of. I didn't know what I should be afraid for but I was in fear. And for a solid month I put ointment over my wrist until I was mentally strong enough to ignore the pain. During the period nobody helped me. Nobody knew of it. It was just me against the world.

Then my father died. And for a solid year I've been there only for myself. I took care of my things. Any emotional moment I had I was the hand that patted my back. Any problem I had I was the solution. I was the mallet to my nail. I was the wrench to the bolt. Then, after sixteen years somebody came up to me and offered her hand. Offered me help. After sixteen years of fending myself against the wild dangers that is the outside world.

I heard her voice echoing through my mind. It could feel my heart exploding under my chest, thumping like a mad drummer in an adrenaline rush.

She left me a smile before turning back and walking. The edge of her jaw moved upwards, forming the cutest grin I've ever seen anyone did.

Then I choked. Then I gagged. Then I spoke.

"I-I,"

She turned back with a curious look on her face. The words were flowing. But they didn't come out. It's flowing in giant waves. Giant torrents. But they weren't coming out. Then, for the first time in sixteen years of living in this planet, I said something irrelevant.

"This wasn't for me. Somebody reserved this."

I lifted the book from my hand and dropped it to my thighs.

"Ah," she said, "well, it's against the rules to borrow a book for someone. Maybe you should-"

"No," I cut her off. I still resented my decision to do so till' this day. Her voice was angelic, and I cut of the call of an angel with my deep, rough scratchy voice. I pointed at my own pin as I spoke. "Part of the Committee. Someone wanted this. It's gonna get picked up. 5."

"Ah," she said again, "better leave it at the counter. They might be here anytime soon."

"Right."

Silence for a spell. It was awkward. Painfully so. Yet, I savoured it. Anything for the beautiful view I'm looking at.

Then I did something I never knew I'd be doing forever.

I gave her my hand, "Shiro," I said.

It was an ironic name. It meant "white" in some foreign language and meant nothing in English or any other speak. And I had fur as dark as the night sky. My parents gave it to me. They never told me why and I never bothered to ask.

Then she grabbed my hand. It felt rough and angular. But it felt heavenly. Warm and comfortable. Cozy. I held it a fraction of a second longer than I should.

Something in me skipped a beat.

She smiled, "It's Krin."

Ah, I thought to myself.

_So this is what it feels like._


	2. Gratuity in a Weirdly, Empathetic Blood Red

People are prideful creatures. Whether they'd be humans, furries, halves or mixes, one's ego will always occupy a part in the functions of the mind. It was where one flaunts oneself regardless of their worth and too, where one defends their shame. That's where pride excels in.

I pride on my abilities and my size. I can easily reach out and lend a helping hand. That's where I also hide my shame. I'm too able and too big of a size for almost everyone that knows or knew me. And that's where people place their shame on - helplessness.

I've been a normal girl until I was five. I thought everyone looked like me until I found out I stood at least three quarters of the teacher's height at preschool. I was a perfectly average girl on the inside but on the outside, I was far from it.

To the other children, I was that one monster on TV that would punctually destroy a city on the kid's channel before getting repeatedly defeated by this week's hero.

I was seen as a horror to the other ones. Like I would accidentally step on them if I wasn't looking, or I would blow them into a hurricane if I had an itchy nose. Whenever the kids look up they just see a bony jaw, spreading across fleshless cheek, with the hinges covered in short flowing hair. I was many a kid's nightmare, in a stretch. I was horrible to look at and unfortunately, I was too memorable for some others.

Kids wouldn't play with me. I was cast aside when we got to the fields. Skipping ropes, hopscotch, swings, slides, you name it. I was too big in size and advantage. Kids would go out of their way and exclude me from any group, even if I was joined by a teacher. I remember standing in the middle of the field, playing Catch with them. I'd stand still for ages and none of them would even bat an eye at their free prey.

My lunches were done solitarily. I'd have one table to myself. One chair, one table, one napkin and a sandwich to go with it. Kids would usually avoid me when they're carrying foodstuffs. Said that I'll vacuum it into 'The Dark Hole' in my mouth if they ever let me take one glance at it like I was some evil, glutinous entity who thought a homemade egg sandwich wasn't enough for a meal.

In short, I was alone for most of my childhood.

I understood that early on in my life. My mother told me I was the most gorgeous thing on the planet to ever grace her eyes. Like "an dark, early bloom in the winter dawn". I didn't understand her words but I knew what she meant.

I looked at the mirror a lot when I was small. I saw how the other kids look like. Tiny noses, small curvy smiles and bright, shining eyes. I had a pointy jaw, a grim stretch of jaws and for some convoluted, biological reason; I just can't seem to find my eyes under my hair.

Maybe that's what set the kids apart. My face. I figured that out a few years younger than I should've. I started avoiding the kids myself. I'd go watch ants on the field during playtime. I'd watch the clouds through the windows during lunch. I didn't had any friends to play with, I spent most of my time studying. So when the kids are spending their holidays together in beaches, I was skimming through middle school textbooks as a head start. And since then, I aced everything I've ever been tested for, academic wise.

That's when I realized I didn't need friends.

I was doing well myself. If I felt bored, I'd just work on a few trial test papers. No big deal, I thought to myself. If I can't get buddies, I'd have Mathematics to sit me through. If asked, I'd consider Fractions as my truest soul mate.

I became what the teachers would call a prodigy. Said I was a few leagues away from the normal kids. Said I could do things they couldn't possibly have done. Said I baffled even the principal herself. Said that it would be better off if I skipped preschool and went ahead with middle school instead.

My mother denied the notion like it was blasphemy. She wouldn't dare let me join the higher ranks just because I understood more than the other kids. She wanted me to be a normal kid. Have a normal life through a normal preschool before jumping into a whole new school life. She asked me on my opinions. Truth is, I wasn't ready as well. Quadratic Equations seemed too much for me and I needed another year digging through the books anyway.

But my mother thought otherwise. She thought I wanted friends so I stayed there. She pulled me to her room as soon as the parent-teacher conference was over. She told me that I was extraordinary. That I was special. That my size and looks didn't matter because what truly mattered is what's inside. Her words came straight out of a kid's movie but I took it in anyway. They weren't coming out from some poor damsel in need of confidence but my own mother towards me.

She said my size was a blessing rather than a curse. I stood eye to eye with her as she spoke. "Krin," she said, "you're more than anybody else. You grow up tall and big just to be everybody's pillar. You'll help a lot of people. Maybe be their hero. But whatever you'll be, someone somewhere will be thankful for your being."

I took those words half-heartedly. I didn't know how much her words would impact me until a decade later.

I spent another year in preschool, oblivious to how I’m starting to overgrow my clothes and eating bigger portions. Oblivious to how I’m starting to take bigger seats in schools, and how I had to compensate space with the teacher’s desk.

It wasn't until middle school when I realized how big I truly was. I was massive. Towering. I was only around ten and already, I'm standing tall at 175 cm. There were a handful of teachers that I had to greet with a perfect 90° bow. Some found it respectable while most found it amusing.

I was at the top of my class, both figuratively and literally. I scored perfect A's and was at least two heads taller than the other guys in class. Besides physicality, I'm what the teachers would call a "role-model", a title I would look back in irony every now and then.

It was during that when I realized where my hidden capabilities shined.

I became sort of a 'runner' for many. I was the involuntary tribute when there's books needed to be carried or equipment to be brought. I was 'that' girl in class. The girl that took the boy's role of being the 'muscle'. My height and size made what's heavy for the other guys a mere walk in the park for me. I could bring in two classes' worth of books in a single run and come back in one breath. I was 'that' girl back then.

I found myself savoring the moments of helpfulness. I'd give my hand to anybody who needed it, or who didn't, or whoever was carrying something remotely tedious for them. I'd find myself wandering the school grounds, hoping that I would bump into someone that needed my skills and capabilities. I'd drift about the place aimlessly, looking to offer my assistance.

I felt like I was someone to others. I was a monster back in preschool but here, I finally became somebody. A helper. An aid in troubling times. If I wasn't as reserved as I was before, I would've even dubbed myself as a hero to others. Reality wasn't like that, though.

Reality was harsh.

I'd tell my mother all about the ones I helped back at school. I'd give her tales of bringing three boxful of workbooks to the office in one go. I'd recount stories of reaching above closets and cupboards to dust them. I'd grin sheepishly at the compliments the teachers gave on my actions. And my mother would laugh, partly at the sight of a large, towering giantess giggling like a child while bouncing around a pink, wallpapered room, hardly ever believing I was only eleven. I, very much, didn't look my age.

Then one day, she sat me down. "Krin," she'd always start with my name. The name didn't mean anything. My father barely arrived for my birth at the hospital, came in, said "Her name will be Krin," and walked out, returning to his work. My mother didn't object. She rarely did. So the name stuck, and I didn't complain one bit.

"Mommy told you it'll get better, am I right? You'll be somebody special and look what happened? My little, precious Krin being everyone's little special helper," I grinned as her sweet words flowed into my childlike mind.

"But remember what Mommy taught you. Manners matters. Remember to say 'You're welcome' when they thank you, okay?"

Like I said, reality was harsh.

My mother left me to myself, proudly thinking that she'd successfully done her job as a mother. It was far from it. She only brought doubts and questions. As soon as she said the words, my mind jumped back to all the times I lent an arm.

Never once had they thanked me for my help.

It wasn't an egotistical attitude I had as a child. I rewound my memories to the moments where I gave anybody any help.

They would look down, daring not to make eye contact. And there I was, with a big dumb smile thinking I had chiseled another wonderful impression of me in another's mind. I dug deeper into my memories. Found scorns, disingenuous smiles and silence.

I became observant for once. It was true. My memories didn't lie. They would merely look up as I call out to them. They would give a soft "yeah" or "sure" when I offered my help. Some didn't even bothered to give half of their attention. They would dump their tasks at hand to me and run back to their friends, trying to get away with their drooping tails between their feet.

I realized something, on that age. It wasn't gratefulness I was receiving. I was giving shame. As for some others, they found out long ago that I was just a big, dense lizard that would blindly agree on anything that goes through her. And they used it.

I wasn't some special, angelic entity that would descend during needy times. I was the hob goblin who would trample all around, thinking itself as the beautiful swamp when I'm not all but a narcissistic trolley in a supermarket, thinking to herself "Wow, I'm loved to no ends" while being beaten, used and abused.

Boys would avoid me. They were at the age where they would prove themselves to be strong and durable. The age where they would put pride on their physical abilities and courageous heart for justice or whatever goal the hero of the TV series that was airing was striving for back then. Then came a giant, monstrous looking dinosaur who took their all their jobs to herself and made them look bad. To them, I was a thief that stole their spotlight. To them, I was their sandbag for their scorns.

To them, I was their hero's arch nemesis. The villain to their stories.

The girls were different. They matured faster, and thought differently. They looked beyond the surface level and saw deeper. Saw beyond my true nature and saw use of it. I was their lackey. They would come at me, all sweet-sounding and helpless, calling out for help, whether it'd be their homework or class duties. And I'll take them all without a second thought. They all got away scot-free without any ounce of guilt stuck within their smug looks.

The realization crashed in like a wreck. I saw a different side of things. A side tucked away from my blind, oblivious eyes. My childlike wonder whisked away abruptly as the ugly truth unveiled itself under the innocent curtains.

I changed classes when I was twelve. I purposely flunked a good test or two to get the opportunity. My mother couldn't've known what happened. I told her I was under the weather when the examination period came. She believed me, and that was the first lie I've ever told my mother. It was a white lie. A stained, painful white lie.

I returned to being that "tall girl with the ugly jaws". I tucked myself to my own space. If the teachers needed help, the boys would be the ones fighting for their time to shine. I sat silently on the side, urging myself not to crush anymore dreams. I shut myself away from the girls. I wasn't planning on getting used anymore.

I was back to my preschool days. It wasn't so bad after all, was it?

Four years went by just like that. I've spent most of my enthusiasm on people only to find scorns and glares looking over my shoulder. I didn't dare to go through it again. The truth had made quite an impact. I was but a kid back then and I knew clearly that it would be different this time around.

But I dare not to cross that social line again, knowing what lies that the end.

I turned sixteen when we moved to an affluent part of the nation. A new place, a new environment, and a new, prestigious high school attended by only the top of society. Once again, those 682 properties funded my educational venture, and then some.

It was all the same. People stared as I passed. Four years had dropkicked my growth to 11 and, standing at around 190 cm, it's hard not to gain attention when you're a giantess that needs to bow upon a doorway if you ever wish to pass it.

But that was the end of it. I was back to being "that girl". That gigantic girl with her ugly, bony jaws protruding menacingly from the back of the class. That was the extent of my effect to the class. I was the background and I was content with it.

Until I came across the Library Committee's need of members.

The notice boards around the school were electronic. They were touch screen based that displayed a wonderful array of news and events happening around the school. There was a section of clubs, opening for new first-year members to join. There were about a good fifty to sixty clubs, and they were all tempting.

Library Committee in Search of New Members

Help Needed

Apply for Academic Benefits

Sign Up Now

[3]

Slots Left

The sign wasn't as bright or as colorful or as vibrant or remotely interesting as the others. It was a white template written in a black, default font with a low resolution clip art of a book on the upper corner. The "3" was blinking, possibly awaiting its chance to turn to "2". You could glance across it several times and easily not notice it. But I saw it. It caught my eye and my attention.

The Library Committee, according to the whispers from the other students, was as good as dead. Only the seniors were running it and half of the time it wasn't even open. The books were rarely updated and borrow and returns are almost unheard of. In short, it was an empty club with a blank future ahead.

And that's where its charm lied.

It was everything I needed. It was a club nobody would go to with activities that only extended to repairing torn pages and adding new volumes to recurring series. It was a quiet job. And that was what I needed. Peace and a job to enrich myself in. I could catch a good book or two with some privileges of being part of the Library Committee.

The job was as easy as I thought it'd be. Half of the time, there'll only be a few students coming in at a time. The most I've seen was five. Other than that, only a few ever came in. Times when the library would be completely empty were common. I appreciated those moments.

I've found my own sanctuary. A place where I could call a second home. I would sit in silence, listening to tunes through my ear buds while I skim through my work. Sometimes for hours at end until the insides of the library start drowning in a spectacular yellow of the setting sun.

It wasn't until mid January when He joined the Committee.

I got sick on the same day He joined. Unfortunate events always happen in the most inconvenient of times. As I laid sick on my bed, I felt worried over the new guy. Did he know the basics? Did he know what to do and what not to? Will he neglect his duties and end up like the seniors before him?

My worries were to be confirmed when I recovered. It was four nightmarish days of fruitless worrying. I arrived at the library late that day. Being in the top class was stressful at times, and overwork was as common as they come. I was managing, barely. I took the commodity of finishing it in class so I could deal with other subjects later on.

The sky was still bright in blue but the corridors were already empty. Commotions could still be heard from some places by other clubs in some other classes. I didn't bother to check out what they were. I wanted to be in the library as soon as possible.

The mahogany counter, stretching across the length of an average book shelf, sitting underneath a silent, industrial air-conditioner. The windows on the side displaying a wide view of the city below from atop the hill our school stood. It was the perfect place to concentrate on my work. Any less wouldn't work and I couldn't imagine anything more.

Someone was already there when I reached.

There was a brown, leather suitcase on the table when I got there. It was sitting right at the middle on my usual spot. It was strange. Nobody left anything yesterday and it certainly wasn't me. With no other reasons to contemplate, the only possibility left was sitting there on the counter in the form of a leather suitcase.

The new guy was here, somewhere.

I decided to go look for the guy. Introduce myself to him or her. Maybe tell him or her something they were never informed or maybe even make friends with them. The last notion was overambitious, but it was a shred of hope I was willing to hold on to.

I wasn't sure about the layout of the library. It was a mini labyrinth. Every bookshelf looked the same and with the amount of books the library had acquired over the years, there's always more and more books in every twist and turn I take.

Then I heard a slight ruffle. A distinctive shuffle of shoes sliding through the wooden floor.

I tracked the noise to the corner of the bookshelf, sitting in front of the counter. I knew my way well around the library. It was close, I heard. I led my way there.

I heard another mild creak from the floor. The sound became distinct. Clear and concise. I turned around, facing the source of the sound.

And there He stood, tiptoed, reaching for a book half an inch too high for him.

He was a tall guy in average terms. On his heels he was about as tall as my shoulders. Maybe a good 7 cm shorter, if I had to estimate. He wasn't skinny, nor was he fat. He looked average, just that he was taller than most people.

His figure was average, but as for the rest, it seemed much more than average. He looked generic in a way that he would be easily overlooked in a crowd. His fur was black. Pure black that blended with his uniform. He was those kind of guys that you'll expect to see in your daily commute on the train.

Then I saw his eyes.

They were pure red. Blood red. Crimson red. A deep, distinct kind of red that seemed like it was extracted from the deep corners of outer space. Contrary to his short snout and overall facial features, it stood out immensely. They were the kinds of eyes that would grab hold of you once you glance towards its line of sight.

They were mesmerizing, if I had to put it in a way.

He was desperately clawing the book down with his cut nails. The school had strict regulations on fashion and unfortunately for him, he met the regulations just as he was met with the challenge of grabbing a book with trimmed claws. Mine was longer and sharper than his. In fact, I didn't need my nails. I could've easily grabbed any book in the library simply by reaching for it. Maybe I should help him.

But should I?

The memories flooded back in again. Does he want help? Did he need it? He was a tall guy himself and he most probably prides himself in it. Grabbing it for him will just completely shove his pride aside and break every ounce of confidence he had gained from his height for all his years of life. Plus, I was a girl. A woman helping another man in tasks of physicality was unheard of in our age.

The wolf hasn't noticed me yet. I looked up to the book. He was halfway there. A few more seconds of grabbing and he would've got it. So was fine, I thought. It was okay, I told myself. I turned back to the counter. I walked towards it, ignoring the wolf as if I've never seen him before.

...

It was impossible.

I was a simple, dumb girl. I was dense to people. I can't read situations unless I was given a hint. And everything I've learned before, I was tossing them away like they were nothing but trash. I turned back, reflexively. I couldn't help myself. Who cares if they see me in a different light? Who cares if I was a busybody?

"My little, precious Krin being everyone's little special helper."

I'm not special. I'm just a big, giant girl who just so happens to reach further, run faster and lift heavier.

"You'll be somebody special."

I'm not special, mother. I'm sorry. I'm a hated girl. I was never wanted there. I was never asked to be there. I was just there, ready to lend my hand.

"Someone somewhere will be thankful of your being."

No, mother. They won't be thankful. They don't want me there. They won't ever will. But I knew otherwise.

They didn't want me there, but they need me. And that's all I need to know.

I stretched my arms up and took the book down from the shelf. I picked it down and turned to him. His face was clearer to my memories now. He had an average look that leaned closer and closer to looking plain every passing second I look at him. His eyes were the only thing I could never forget. They were burning red, hot and sharp.

He looked at me. He looked surprised. He was staring at my hands. Then his crimson eyes led him to my shoulders. Then he stepped back, comprehending my size before ending on my head.

He looked startled as he stared at me, as if he was in a trance. I met similar responses before. An average person would be shocked to see an exposed jaw, few inches high piercing towards them menacingly.

I left enough of an impression on the wolf. I handed him the book and gave him a mannered "Here" as I did. "If you need any help, I'll be at the counter, okay," I said as he slowly rose his hand, meeting the book with his paw. I felt dumb saying that. But it made me look like a librarian, someone that wouldn't stay long in a person's memory once associated with said term. I walked back without another thought.

"I-I,"

I heard a stammer. I turned back. It was the wolf. Seeing him in his full height, he was fidgeting his fingers heavily. I stayed there, awaiting his words. Most before him would've said nothing and moved on with their lives, condemning my bothersome existence.

Then he spout out his words. They came out deep and rough. They sounded scratchy, like they belonged to a lumberjack or anybody along the lines of one. He gave me an impression of a person who wasn't used to talking a whole lot.

"This wasn't for me. Somebody else reserved it."

Hm? I felt intriguiged. Was he explaining himself? He didn't have the need to, and I certainly didn't expect him to. Maybe he was saying he wasn't the one who wanted the book? Maybe he was trying to explain away the fact that a girl taller than him had beaten him in terms of height? Either way, I wasn't dwelling further into it. I gave another stock response. I told him that it wasn't on par with the rules to do so.

"No," he blurted out.

Hm?

He pointed at the tiny badge on the collar. It was the same as mine.

"Part of the Committee. Someone wanted this. It's gonna get picked up. 5," he said.

Ah.

I never felt any more embarrassing than I was at that moment. I wanted to roll up into the shelf and never come back out. I wanted to get blown out of the window and never face him again. I felt foolish. The pin was right there, and I missed it.

So this is the new member, I thought to myself.

I gave another stock response. I told him to leave it on the counter, just in case the person in question wants it. Five o'clock was a good few hours away but I said it anyway. Anything to save me from this embarrassing situation.

"Right."

Then things became quiet, for a spell. He was staring at me, and I stared back.

Then he reached out his paws.

"Shiro."

Oh, uh...

I took his hands. They were fuzzy and warm and soft. They felt comfortable to hold.

"It's Krin."

He retracted his hands and replaced it with the book. He took a deep breath, composing himself as he did.

"Thanks," he said.

As he said that, he gave a lopsided grin and a grateful nod. Then he turned and headed away.

I stood there, unsure of what to do or what had unfolded.

I hadn't been thanked for years. It wasn't a monumental task, either. It was just a book, too tall for someone to reach. I didn't deserve it, and he didn't need to say it.

Yet, he said.

Huh.

So this is what it feels like.


	3. Bane of the Conversational Bridge

Communication is key to everything. Literally. Without it there wouldn't been centuries of history to the conception of civilization. Ever since the oldest cavemen discovered the alternative to conveying ideas that doesn't involve bashing heads in with rocks on sticks, mankind was spearheading its progress towards bettering themselves.

All of it could be nullified if the men of the past never tried to make contact with one another. It wouldn't be a stretch to call it the biggest butterfly effect to ever be witnessed and experienced at this very moment.

Of course, it goes without saying that those unable to communicate are destined to meet a lonely end. Unfortunately, it took Shiro sixteen years too late to realise that.

Shiro, a sixteen year old black wolf who, for the life of him, is hopelessly useless in forming a sentence with more than five words that would entice a shred of attention. For a decade and a half, he'd said nothing more than simple 'yes' and 'no'es that could be counted on a monthly basis with the claws on his paws.

"Speak only the essentials," was his (unspoken) motto and oh boy, did he regret that muchly.

He soon realized his mistake upon arriving a prestigious high school full of trust fund kids and snotty brats with Daddy's four bank accounts on disposal. Sons of CEOs and daughters of wealthy entrepreneurs all coagulate under one, or several, giant roof shared and co-owned by millions of companies world wide, allowing a near infinite pool of money for the school's disposal.

And it, too, goes without saying that making friends with students there meant a mutual shared interest between companies where the respective child belonged. In short, it's not just your regular private school but a business ground where one silly rivalry can mean billions in both loss and profit.

And all of that is controlled by one terrifying, shapeless entity - communication.

Shiro wasn't some kid from a well-known company. He was just there because his mother made too much money for two family members. His father died years ago, which meant the expenses only needed to include him and his mother.

Her mother was an famous anchorwoman that raked in at least six figures monthly. She sent Shiro to said school and from there on out, Shiro himself realized allies were compulsory to the survival of man-to-man interaction. He soon realized saying the wrong thing could cost his mother's job and his school life.

Plus, he was lonely too. Sixteen years of solitary would do something to a person, even to one with a fondness for silence.

Then, in the middle of a humid January afternoon, he met his chance at finally breaking the wall of ice that had solidified itself for all those years.

Krin, a giant lizard he just met as his fellow librarian partner. She was gigantic but she wasn't fat. She was just unimaginably big. Shiro was a tall guy himself and he thought Krin was comparable to a barbarian. Solely in terms of size.

She was an interesting one to look at. For a reptile she had an unusual lack of scales. Her snout was bony and of yellowish white. Her jaws spread across her cheeks that ended on her smooth flowing, dark green hair that parted across her snout like a window, shrouding her eyes within the strands.

She wasn't a charm for ones eyes but for Shiro, he didn't mind. He liked her exotic features, anyway. If he had to describe it, 'special' would fit the bill just right.

Her figure was different below. She had a curvy figure with a sizable bust. Fur covered all to her elbow, knees and the base of her swishing tail. The caps of her limbs were exposed and bony. An enigmatic sight to behold, he'd say.

She was, too, a thoughtful figure. He could see it in her acts. Most would advise not to judge a book by its cover but he knew better than most. Not many would help someone get a book of a shelf, if you think about it hard enough. Especially a girl to a guy.

And now he's sitting beside her, on the mahogany table, her pen gliding across the pages of her notebook, deep in her work.

He had a novel in his hand and earbuds in his perky ears, blaring whatever was on his shuffle into them. But he wasn't listening nor did he realize that the book was held upside down and turned to the glossary. His eyes were wide, slyly glued onto the reptile next to him.

It was his big break. A chance to break the unbreakable norm. A chance in a form of a reptilian maiden.

Just say something, he told himself. Speak. Say anything. Anything at all. Anything that'll make her respond.

But what should I talk about?

The most common cause of miscommunication is the failure to grasp or even find a topic. Especially if it's someone new. Will they find it interesting? Will they find it offensive? Will they find it boring and completely obliterate their first impression of you? It was a mental hurdle. A mental obstacle to overcome.

But little did many know it was the same to the other guy. Too, they would consider the questions and form their own doubts. They would wonder whether their choice of words would shatter the opposite's expectations of them. Whether it would harm their impression in the long run.

In short, a conversation is a two, same-sided coin. It is only when one side shows their true face when the coin truly has value.

So far, Shiro hasn't even come close to that conclusion. He was but a mere novice to the concept of mouthed words. Such thoughts have yet to cross his mind. All that in his head is a constant shuffle of letters and questions gushing against the solid dam wedged between his teeth that has built up for so long.

What should I speak? What can I ask?

What can I say?

...

The mild scratching of Krin's pen blended with the mechanical hum from the aircon above. Silence hung solemnly as the seconds painfully pass. Words flung across Shiro's sight in torrents, unwilling to emerge from his tight sealed lips.

Dread begun to crept up his spine, its clacking nails clicking against his back as it burrowed deep in the back of his mind.

Maybe he wasn't up to it. He just wasn't cut for it. Maybe he stayed silent for a reason. He couldn't talk before, why now? Why here?

Why ever?

History began repeating itself, replaying like a rewinded tape on fast-forward. His time spent in the corner, watching through the slits of his crimson eyes, observing their words. His time spent in the middle of the crowd, taking in the notions and motions, unconsciously writing the mental notes down in his mind, never part of the action.

Maybe it was meant to be. Like it was biologically intended. He was a wolf, after all. A silent, unmoving creature, only to be set in action by a worthy prey. Maybe he hasn't found his prey. Maybe he never had the luck. Never had the chance. Never had the-

"Shiro, is it?"

He stopped thinking. His train of thoughts went on an unexpected halt. The drowning music made a sudden pause. His pupils wobbled within his eyes. Focus returned to his sight.

Krin was looking at him, her back to the chair; her pen on the table; her hands on her lap. The setting sun on the window behind Shiro glowed a brilliant yellow, basking her in a radiant, golden light. Her hair draped on the edge of her lopsided jaw, swaying along the light breeze from above.

Shiro stared for a second. "Yes," he mumbled as he fumbled the cords on his ears.

"Ah. Well, since we're supposed to work together from now on." Her head was down, facing her twirling thumbs. "I just thought we can, well, get to kno-"

"Yes." Shiro spoke away without hesitation. He was acting out of a state of shock and unexpectedness. All the flying words and fumbling sentences faded in an fluttering flight. His mind grinded to a stuttering pause. His vocabularies all tossed to some dark corner of his head, taken over by pure instincts and muscle memory, not that there's much of it.

What Shiro didn't know was that Krin, too, was waging war with a mental storm from her side too. If Shiro paid attention, he would've saw that the notes on her book were just stickmen doing handstands in a single file. Her eyes, though unseen, were on Shiro's face as well. She didn't notice his glance as they were wide shut.

Her brain was jumping on and off from one topic to another. She needed to break the silence. She, unlike Shiro, had experience with social norms before. She was sitting with someone she anticipated to spend the next ten months with for a few hours every weekday after-school.

She either has to build the foundations of a conversational bridge or its insufferable quietness for weeks to come.

She didn't expect a quick answer. She was taken aback. Experience told her it was a mild chuckle and a follow-up of fun facts and quips before the coming conversation. Experience didn't know what to tell her what to say when someone answers your question with two 'yes'es before you finished.

Her mind jumped from island to island. What can she ask? What builds the strongest foundations in a friendly talk? What brings the most interest into a-

It all clicked. The one path to connect all the islands.

"Well," She set her palms on the table, "what do you like to do?"

It was the most common and least risky thing to ask. There would be a 30/70 chance that their interest might hit with yours. It was the safest route to take for a friendly talk. It was a simple question warranting a simple answer. Nothing would possibly go haywire.

Right?

Shiro couldn't hold the panic. Now it was his move. His step to take. He needed to build a good, lasting impression. He needed to paint an image over himself that doesn't reveal his literal physical representation of a hermit crab's behaviour.

He also needed to stray away from typicality. He couldn't possibly say that he liked games (which he does) or that he's into music (which he is). He needed something that you wouldn't find from the hundred other guys you see on the streets. You have to be unique. You have to stand out. You have to-

"Reading," Shiro blurted.

His mind went on an instant rampage. He thought of something no typical guy would do. The train of thought sped past multiple conclusions and ended on the bare core of masculinity.

That's where I shouldn't be, Shiro thought.

I should be unique, Shiro thought.

I shouldn't be manly, Shiro (wrongly) thought.

What is unmanly, Shiro thought.

Unmanly things don't need strength, Shiro thought.

Intelligence is the opposite of strength, Shiro thought.

What is intelligence, Shiro thought.

Being literate, Shiro regretfully thought.

And that was what he said. Reading. Where at least 80% of the world could manage. It wasn't special. Far from it. It was a basic human trait. A basic skill for a somebody part of society. If it's a skill everyone can do, it isn't one anybody considers to be special.

Shiro screwed up on his first try. Screwed up badly. People say the first time is always the failure but for first impressions, there is no second chance. It's called 'first' impression for a reason.

But there is a way to salvage it.

Follow it up with something. If you're doing what everyone else can do, do it better than them. Be the best. Be the one to stand out. Do it better than everybody else. The only assured way to ever surpass normality is to be better than everybody at it. Make it that you, and only you can wield and possess. Make it-

"Crime thrillers, that is," Shiro added.

Shiro made a tiny, mental cheer as he spoke of that. It gave an air of mysteriousness. It was a thriller after all. People would usually drop it for being too ambiguous or not having enough patience for it.

For Shiro, it was his favourite. He liked it to his death, unironically. The build-up where all the pieces just masterfully get pieced together is just a part of how much he adores the genre. The tension before the puzzle come together in a stunning, quiet conclusion. The vigilantes. The grizzled detective. The grey, ambiguous moral ground. He loved it to no end.

It was a far cry from those common, mystery fiction where there's always a black and white situation on who's good and who's bad. Not this one. Rarely would it come up on a crime thriller. Ambiguous senses of retribution was the key to its charisma. You never know who's wrong or right because there's never a distinct line. It's either who had the bigger gun than the other one. It's dirty, simple and simply gorgeous, in Shiro's opinion.

"Crime thrillers? Like John Reacher?"

Shiro's ears perked up in an instant. The Reacher series was a staple for any crime thriller fans. It was the face for the genre, both metaphorically and literally. It was the series that introduced him into the genre. It was the shining, golden arch welcoming him into the dark, murky alleyways that is the crime thrillers.

He remembered fondly of the time when he found the complete series stacked neatly on the library shelf, seemingly there just for him. He'd missed a day's worth of assignments just because he was reading through the night. To him, it was that good. Like a treasury's worth of gold in every page, if its worth was to be put to words.

Shiro nodded erratically, his head bouncing by its neck full of enthusiasm.

Krin set her elbow on the mahogany table, her bony cheek resting upon her palms. Shiro could've sworn he saw a faint purse on the end of her jaw.

"Ever heard of The Black Tower?" She arose from her palms and rested on her curled fingers, "They made a movie about it too. Wasn't that good though."

Shiro dug back deep into his memory. He remembered reading them when he saw the cover. It was a silhouette holding a revolver facing a dark tower. It intrigued him and so he bought it. He liked it. He never brought the sequel to it but he liked it nonetheless.

It was long ago since he read it. The plot remained vaguely stuck into his consciousness, though, fortunately.

"Yes," Shiro answered, "heard of it."

She looked up, "You've read it?"

"Some." It was really just one book.

She jolted from her position from a bit and twirled from her chair, now facing Shiro. "Really?"

He needed proof. He needed to show that he had some extension of a knowledge to the series and not just a mere, quick visitor to the franchise.

Then he remembered something about the book. The protagonist had a kid that followed him around in his journey when to the end, something happened to the kid. Shiro couldn't remember what was it but he certainly remembered how it ended.

"Sad the kid died."

Krin gave a smirk-like response, "Oh, you've got a lot to go from there on out."

Shiro heard the cheekiness in her tone. He formed a quick conclusion in his head. The kid was probably revived or brought back. It was unlikely, though. The gunslinger aged at least decades ahead by the end too. He couldn't see how it was possible. And it was just the first book too.

"I could get you the book now, if you want it."

"They got it?"

"Oh, they do!" Krin rose in delight.

"Where?"

"Hmm..." She tapped her upper jaw in quick successions. "If I'm not wrong, I saw it at the HORROR section."

Of course, that was a dumb question to ask.

"I can show you there. You want to?" She offered.

Shiro opened his mouth right as a mild ring blasted from outside the library doors.

"Ah," Krin exclaimed. A low droop was audible in her voice.

The school bell, Shiro cursed inside.

The high school, as well as being prestigious, was also fairly high-tech. Electronic white boards, digital bulletin boards, facial recognition softwares in closed circuit cameras and of course, automatic gates that close every 5 30 in the evening. Security guards aren't there to open it for you, only automatic alarms connected to the local police station awaiting the first sign of intrusion.

It was either the gate you walk out from or the cops with questions as to why you're on private grounds beyond the allocated time of access without authorization.

Krin turned back to Shiro, an apologetic shrug of a shoulder. "Guess I'll show you next time."

Shiro bobbed his head in response.

Silence hung about for a spell.

A silent ring seamed through the cracks from the quietness. The ring sung about in an unbreakable dome, swirling around with the mechanical hum above, feeding on the remnants of the previous bell.

Then Krin reached down below the desk. She came back up with a sling bag. She tossed it around her snout and dropped it on her shoulders. She stood up, the straps wrapping down her body, hugging her enormous figure tight within its embrace.

"Shall we go?"

Shiro looked up to her. The drowning sun still shadowing her figure in a radiant glow with a dark yellowish orange. She was glancing down, her jaw hanging shut staring at him.

Shiro stood up, dropping the novel into a bland, black flapover briefcase along with his phone, the cords of his earphones attached to it.

He nudged his snout towards Krin's table. Her notebook was left open, the pen firmly clipped onto the page.

"Ah, right," she hastily grabbed everything and slot it into her sling bag. She drew her pen out and dropped it into an unzipped compartment. Shiro could spot similar pens popping out from it.

She nudged her head back up, meeting Shiro with the briefcase wedged comfortably under his shoulders, cords coming from the bag, his earphones worn one sided with the other one dangling perilously on his chest.

"Shall we?" She repeated herself.

Shiro nodded. Then he paused and took a glance on another book on the mahogany table. It was the one from the shelf, still sitting on the table unattended.

Tomorrow, maybe, Shiro thought to himself.

He followed her to a double glass door the lead to a hallway that went both ways. The doors closed with an electronic beep and a click. They took a left and walked. Krin looked even taller than before, her head inches from scraping with the ceiling.

They walked for a few more steps before Krin asked, "How do you go back from here?"

"Train," he answered.

The train was rarely taken by the students of his school. Most would've left with their chauffeurs, patiently waiting for their masters by the school's storied parking lot.

"Hey, what are the odds," Krin proclaimed.

Shiro looked up to Krin. She was glancing down towards him.

"What's your station?"

Shiro thought about it for a second, "K."

Krin stopped in her steps. Shiro took two more before realising her sudden halt.

"That's a faraway station, isn't it?"

Shiro was baffled by Krin's question. He answered with a shrug.

"I'm taking the same line too."

Ah, that's what it is.

Girls really like coincidences, according to Shiro's observations. They see it as emotional fate, prophesying a strong bond and healthy relationship for their future.

Or it was, at least, for the girls in Shiro's class. The coincidences would go as far as the model of their chauffeurs' car to the number of cats they have in their household. It was a wide variety that held only the barest of meaning and they all ate it up regardless.

But still, Station K was an hour's worth of journey without accounting to the errors and the train's arrival. Almost nobody would go there without a particular reason. It was on the outskirts of the city and only had an arcade as an attraction.

Shiro thought about it again. Then a lump was dumped on his throat. He couldn't swallow it down. It was too hard and too rough. He didn't know what would happen if it stayed too long. It was either going out or it's staying inside. He had a split second worth of time to make a decision.

He made it in a breath's second.

"Go together," he asked Krin.

Krin heard him, processed his words and gave him a confused look.

"Aren't we going to?'

Krin caught up with her steps, walking past Shiro as his eyes followed her. "Come on, train's leaving."

He stood there for a full second.

He did it. He finally did it.

It was his first prompt. His first words, formed by his mind and put into his mouth. Outside it went. It was but two words. Four syllables. Yet it was his first two words. His first four syllables.

He found it quite... tedious.

He recalled his conversation back then with Krin. It was a constant, warring state of his mind, grasping the right words, choosing the correct letters. It was a gamble too. Whether someone would appreciate those words or not hinges entirely on their coming response.

It was a contest of knowledge too. Interest can only be shown with select knowledge presented as credibility to your claim. Shiro was lucky enough to have his memories partially intact. If Krin asked anything, he wouldn't've been where he was at that moment.

Then he looked at the silhouette at the far end of the corridor. The silhouette looked back, a sling bag hanging from her hips, her jaws slightly ajar. The bright yellow from the windows gave it shape and depth.

"Are you coming," it said.

Shiro stared at the silhouette for a brief moment.

Then he took another step.

Maybe it wasn't that bad, Shiro thought to himself.

Maybe I'll keep this up for now.


	4. A Setting Sun over a Sleeping Train

Shiro doesn't talk much, was what Krin realized during her time in the library with him. He was always the answerer, and never did his replies go further than a few words in a sentence.

Maybe he wasn't a talkative one, she thought. Or maybe he doesn't even want to talk. People can be like that sometimes. Sparse words are usually the top signs of one yearning for personal space.

He didn't seem like it, though. It was a possible theory but it didn't felt probable. For Krin, at least. It was a feeling, to say the least.

The lucid sky drowned into a sprawling orange. The air was unsure whether it'd be humid or just cold and wet. Puddles condensed into the uneven sidewalk, pools pocked across the concrete surface, reflecting deep gold across the place. A metal divider held the passing cars on their right to their road. Aging trees arched over their heads on the left, occasionally dripping a stray dewdrop to their heads.

Krin stole another furtive glance towards Shiro. He had his earphones on, with a white cord streaking down his night black fur, scurrying into the deep end of his flap over briefcase, wedged comfortably under his shoulders to his right. Krin could hear a soft, familiar tune playing as they walked.

"The wild dogs cry out in the night, as they grow restless, longing for some solitary company," the earpiece whispered.

She darted her sight towards his snout. They were shorter and more angular than an average wolf's. He had a rather cubed nose, to her amusement. His ears perked up from the side of his head, cupping inwardly, ending with a sharp tip to the sky.

His fur was rough and tousled about with a hundred patches going about on a hundred different directions. Yet, they seemed neat from a wide view, like it was grown on him since his days as a cub. Like imperfections joining as a whole image.

Then there was his red eyes. Crimson, they were. They weren't bright nor were they shining. They looked uninterested at things, yet they were focused and absorbed, as if it was attentive to something else entirely. They seemed to be in deep thought, in some faraway mental land residing within Shiro's head.

Suddenly, Shiro stopped in his tracks. Krin caught on with him and turned back to see what's wrong, just in time to see his face contorting. His snout twitched violently in a jerky motion. All in a split second. His eyes suddenly squinted themselves, squishing themselves into slits. His mouth opened, revealing his jagged jaws. His tongue rolled upwards in a swirling motion, flinging itself to the roof of his mouth.

Krin watched it as it unfolded all before her eyes. Shiro's poker-faced demeanor suddenly twisted itself into a different expression, one that she couldn't tell no matter-

"Tchoo," went Shiro.

A chilly breeze blew past the sidewalk as his voice trailed off with the busy motorway beside them.

"...oh," went Krin's mind.

It was a soft and rather high-pitched sneeze. One that Krin wouldn't expect to come from Shiro. It was a sneeze that didn't fit Shiro's looks and image in anyway. If she was to guess, she'd figure a discreet, silent sneeze would be it. She didn't know Shiro's actual sneeze would be this...

Cute, Krin thought.

The red swirl in his eyes condensed into a surprised, ruby-like clot. He held up his free arm and ducked his snout under his sleeves as he slightly titled downwards to the side. "Sorry," a deep, wobbly voice called out.

Krin suppressed a giggle, nearly popping a blood vessel on her neck as she did. "Are you cold?"

Shiro dropped his arm, the cords on his ears dangling as he did. He kept silent for a second, adjusting the briefcase under his shoulder before saying, "Slightly."

Krin gave a sheepish smile, "The station's only two blocks away," she said, "think you can survive it?"

Shiro nodded. He took a few steps, pausing to Krin's side. He looked upwards at Krin, some unknown emotion in his eyes.

She took one last glance at Shiro before continuing on her pace, "Shall we?"

The two blocks took them a good minute to arrive. The pavement abruptly transitioned into a smooth, tiled concrete pavement that led them to a massive structure, supported by erected pillars strategically placed over a crowded, snail-paced six lane road. The structure had two tracks side by side, coming in and through itself as it stretched out to beyond their line of sight.

"Well, we're here," Krin said.

The structure stood exactly as wide as the road itself, with footbridges linking from both left and right. A pair of roofed escalator was available to carry them to the footbridge. An elevator was present too, tucked neatly a few metres away in between the escalators with glass paned walls and barriers.

Krin and Shiro took the escalators. Both weren't so keen of being seen by hundreds of stuck motorists through the glass. The escalators were covered two metres high and a few metres wide with concrete. The sides were lit up with tubes of light that were sporadically placed.

Krin always had butterflies in her stomach whenever going through the escalator. Her head was only a few good inches from scraping the ceiling, with some irregular surfaces nearly brushing against her hair as she went. Not to mention the occasional mechanical creaks and hiccups that come from the bottom of her feet. The steep design of the escalator didn't help with her height, either.

The escalator brought them two stories high. Krin let out a discreet sigh of relief as she the escalator ended. It led them to the overpass with the same, tiled concrete floor that led to both left and right. The right would lead them to a connected mall while the left took them to the train station. They went where they needed to be.

The station was basic and simplistic. A high ceiling with a giant, grey fan slowly spinning around. Krin always wondered whether there'll be a difference without it. To their left are rows of kiosks for tickets and a vending machine to the far right that always seemed to be empty on everything but bottled mineral water. To their front was a connecting overpass that led to someplace else. To their right are metallic turnstiles and a information booth on the far right. A grey-haired lady with shrivelled mouse ears sat inside, glancing on a computer screen, oblivious to their existence.

They went to the turnstiles. There were ten in total. They went to the nearest one. Krin walked to it first while Shiro took the one next to her. Shiro tapped the bottom of his briefcase on a sensory screen on the turnstile. A dull, mechanical click came after. Shiro nudged the rotating poles and went to the other side effortlessly. Krin did the same, only as a half-a-feet taller lizard.

She walked up to him. He was looking at her, an untold expression in his eyes.

Krin slotted the card back into her bag. "Shall we?"

The station was a dull, basic, grey-flushed station with nothing but bare essentials. Signs hung about, pointing to various places. The sides were all windowed, fuzzy glasses showing the outside. A pair of escalators sat right smack in the middle, leading upwards to another floor. They weren't as steep as the ones before, but they were tall nonetheless.

Here we go, Krin thought.

Krin took off towards the escalators, her steps slightly reluctant. Shiro followed her behind, his sight drifting towards nothing in particular. They walked for a short moment before Shiro spoke.

"Take the elevator."

Krin halted her steps. She stayed there for a second, silent. Then she turned around. There, Shiro stood. He wore an straight gaze, indifferent from every other poker faced expression since the time at the library. She could never tell what he was feeling nor was thinking. The closest thing she had for an indication was his eyes.

She couldn't've wondered if he knew.

"The elevator," he said again, his voice deep and subtle, "it's open."

Krin stayed there before snapping back. "Okay." She nodded.

Krin walked to the side, Shiro tailing her from behind. The escalators rose to the top floor from beside, a giant metallic wall and rising as it ascended. To the far end of the wall was an open elevator. The glass doors were sprung open, empty and vacant.

Krin went in first. Her size made it troubling to squeeze in, especially her tail. The elevator was high enough for her to get in without scraping her head. She bended in her tail inwards and stood diagonally, next to the elevator buttons. Shiro slipped in easily effortlessly.

Krin nudged a button with her fingers and the doors closed shut. The glass casket began rising. Krin preferred this. She was in a safe machinery, devoid from the dangers of height or falling over to the side to a potential concussion. It was comforting, to say the least.

The elevator stopped after two seconds. The glass wall from below became the open air. The door sprung open once more. Shiro looked up to Krin again, a paw nudging towards the exit.

Ladies first, the gesture said.

Krin gave a slight smile as she ducked her way out. Shiro followed after.

The upper floor was a wide strip of tiled concrete that stretched as far as a train's length, open air without any walls. Metallic benches were bolted to the ground in the middle. Directories were fixed to the ceiling with the florescent light tubes. A lone, analogue clock hung on both sides of the station. It sat between two tracks, both facing parallel to each other, heading on opposite directions.

They stood facing their line. The station didn't had any indication for the oncoming train but a gut feeling told Krin it'd be here soon. Hopefully.

There they stood, next to each other behind the yellow line.

The station was near-empty, with Krin, Shiro and an eagle in a hoodie sitting on the far side of the station, his feathers ruffing with a tablet in his hands.

A silence rang about, with a cacophonous series of horns and motors from below.

Then Krin decided to break the silence. "You want to talk about something?"

She looked at Shiro. His red eyes gazed back from the question. Then he plucked off his earphones and stuffed it in his collar. "Sure."

Krin looked away to the ground. "Well," she said, "what do you want to talk about?"

Shiro was silent for a second before spouting, "Us."

The silence returned, with a hint of awkwardness on the side.

Krin looked at Shiro, her mind crashing into every nerve, attempting furiously to wonder whether he meant what he meant. He looked back, a crimson swirl in his eyes, emotionless from his words.

Then the swirl condensed into a sudden ruby gem from realisation of his words. Shiro ducked his head back down, his voice wobbly and deep, "Ourselves, I mean."

Ah, Krin thought.

She took the liberty of a second to gather her thoughts. A surge of past memories flooded into her head. A pint of nostalgia was thrown in somewhere. Some were nice ones, some were rather to be forgotten. She formulated her thoughts, then she asked.

"Shall I start first?"

Shiro nodded slightly.

Krin drew a deep breath.

Then she spoke.

"I wasn't supposed to be this big, the doctors said. They expected me to be somewhere around your shoulders but not the other way around. Guess that's what you get for being a hybrid."

A hybrid. An animal created from a test tube and born from a womb. As science goes, they weren't cheap, exclusive to only the mere higher ups of society. They weren't new, but the religious zealots didn't care much. They were hailed as unnatural, mostly from the fact that most hybrids were born with defects like, say for example, abnormal heights. Often were they discriminated against in the past on the first few years. They were considered normal nowadays, but the wounds of history still stands.

Krin was one of those people.

She searched for something in Shiro's eyes as she said the word. There was nothing there. The indifference still stands, with a little hint of curiousity as to why she suddenly stopped.

Relief came in like a tiny wave. She continued, "My mother, a stay-at-home sergal, said it was from my father's genes. You would've probably guessed what my father is. Anyway, I didn't know what she meant. I thought I was normal like every other kid. Then it was time for preschool."

Childhood memories returned in a sudden wave. They weren't pretty, but they reminded her of better days.

"I was very tall. Like extremely tall. Big, too. The principal was a giraffe and even then, I was half his neck. My mother told me it was normal. I knew it wasn't, but it took me to middle school until I realized. The world isn't as accepting as my preschool taught me, unfortunately."

Then came that part. Should she tell him? It seemed odd to put it in. It was a personal thing. An idiosyncrasy gone wrong and misunderstood. Should she bring it out?

"Middle school was fine. I was laughed at on several occasions but other than that, it went smooth. My time passed and here I am today."

She decided not to.

Krin turned to Shiro. He had a indecisive look to his eyes, unsure of what to feel for her story. She preferred it that way. It wasn't a depressing tale or some confident girl rising from her weird quirk. It was an ordinary tale of a girl that just so happens to have an extraordinary height and that's that.

"So what about you," she asked.

It was Shiro's turn for silence. Except it wasn't as silent as Krin's. Their train was arriving from the far left, approaching in decelerating approach.

Shiro opened his mouth, then he closed it again. There was something in his eyes. Something indescribable. Krin couldn't deduce what it was. It was a foreign emotion that she didn't know what it was.

The train came to a silent halt in front. It was of a tubular structure, silver and gleaming under the sunlight. The driver was nonexistent. The train was automotive. The evident advancements of technology.

It was when the doors sprung open when Shiro finally spoke.

An audible, feminine operator voice came from the train, signalling the opening doors and for the passengers' caution. Even with the voice, Krin heard his words clearly.

"My father died when I was fourteen."

His melancholic words reverberated in her head. Krin stared at him for a second before looking away. She didn't know what to say. It came out too sudden. Without warning. She didn't know how to respond.

They both walked into the train. The insides were more angular. More rectangular, as opposed to the exterior. They grabbed onto the pole on the middle, despite the vacant seats around them, facing opposite of each other.

"Train departing Station Y," the recorded operator announced, "arriving Station X."

The doors closed shut with a mild hiss. The train began its silent journey, accelerating in an unprecedented rate. The mechanisms kept them in place, with only a mild sway from the train's blinding speed.

Among the chilly air from the blowing air inside, Shiro spoke again. "Sorry."

Krin shook her head. "Want to sit?"

Shiro looked at her, a slight hint of regret present in his sight. He nodded.

They shuffled to the side. Shiro stood a seat's distance away from Krin, nudging yet another hand on the seat. She sat down on the side before Shiro joined her.

"You've got manners." She tried to break the heavy atmosphere.

Shiro nodded slightly. It worked, in some ways.

A townscape loomed overhead from the glass panes. Buildings and office blocks rose above the landscape, a yellow, setting sun behind them all, slowly ducking into the land, painting the shadowed clouds and buildings in a brilliant, golden orange.

Shiro looked at Krin. He asked, "Can I?"

Krin drew another slight breath. She looked back, readiness in her heart. "Carry on."

Shiro looked back to the townscape. His snout was ajar for a moment. Then he continued.

"Should've started differently. I'm sorry."

Krin shook he head again, "It's fine. I was surprised, is all."

Shiro looked down. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then he opened them again.

"My dad's a wolf. My mom's a cat. My biological mom's a wolf. My dad had to give his sperm to the hospital to get me born. My biological mom died when she gave birth to me. She died of blood loss."

Krin was ready but it still took her off her balance. A death was awful enough. But this wolf here had two.

"I was grateful. I wasn't sad. She died so that I live. It was fine."

The red swirl drowned deeper and deeper in Shiro's eyes. He was looking into something deep into his memories. His sight was replaced with the same unspeakable emotion from before.

"My preschool was fine too. I did my homework. Didn't get into trouble. It was okay,"

"Then it was middle school."

Shiro paused for a moment. Then he spoke more.

"I learned fighting. I did well back then. I aced my classes. Took some belts, too."

Krin wasn't surprised about that. He did look the part. He could probably hold off a robbery on his own. Probably.

Then came the kicker.

"I was extorted on thirteen. Wild kids. Tried to take my cash. I fought them. I came out alright. Then they sent more. Turned out to be a full racket. One tried to kill me. Pushed me to the train tracks. I put him down. Probably a concussion. I don't know."

Krin was taken aback. Extortion racket in a middle school. She heard that life outside her comfort zone was harsh. People did whatever they could for a living. Unspeakable things, even. But an extortion racket by middle school kids seems unreal. It didn't sound improbable, but still.

And for Shiro to fight them all. He was probably a good fighter. Probably.

"The boss was a bear. He got me hard. Broke my wrist. I broke more on him. That was that. Nobody else came. It was back to normal,"

He was probably a really good fighter, Krin thought. Probably.

"I failed my finals. It was the same year. I fought so much I didn't study. I had to stay for one more year. It was also the same year my dad died."

Here it comes.

"He brought a knife to a gunfight. He was a policeman. It was a bank robbery. He was too confident. He had no choice too. The guy had a hostage. He died doing his thing. It was fine too. I didn't feel sad."

Krin could see the serene peace in his eyes. He seemed okay with everything. There wasn't a hint of choked up feelings in his voice. They were deep, solid and stable, unlike what one would expect from a person talking about the death of past families.

"Then my mom got a promotion. She got herself a place. I moved away from her. Got myself a cheap place. It was decent. I liked it."

Krin sat upwards, "You live alone?"

Shiro nodded. "Even before I moved out. My mom's rarely home. I'm used to it."

"Ah," Krin said.

Krin couldn't say anything. Not a single word came to her mind that was appropriate. Maybe it was for the best. Shiro had a past. A past normal folks probably didn't have. One that would probably change a person.

Was Shiro different before? Krin couldn't've known.

Maybe it was for the best.

The townscape streaked past them as the train went. The chilly air fogged the windows, mushing the scenery into an aesthetic, blotted mess. The mild whirrs from outside accompanied their solitary journey, passing block to block with every passing second.

The silence went on for a while.

Then Krin spoke, "What does your mother work as?"

"Newscaster," Shiro answered.

Krin nodded. "Mine's a property dealer."

Shiro looked up, "Thought she stays at home."

"Oh no, I was talking about my fa-" Then Krin stopped mid sentence.

She realized her mistake. Her unforgivable blunder. Just mere moments after Shiro referenced his late father she'd said what she said.

Krin blurted out. "Sorry, I-"

"It's fine."

Krin heard his words. She wanted to say something in return. She opened her mouth. Then she closed it again.

There's nothing else to say.

Krin brought it to herself. The rest of the ride would be accompanied by painful silence. All because of her clumsy mouth-

"No."

Shiro spoke. It was a single word. A word ripe with meaning and implications. A word full of expressions and emotions and feelings.

A word Krin couldn't've possibly regretted to hear.

Words rushed out of Krin's mouth, "I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to. It just-"

"Not that."

Shiro's voice was as deep as it was. Yet his words came differentlu. It came hard-hitting. It came solid, like it was meant to be as definitive as it could be. It came out like a stomp. A direct statement.

"Life wasn't fine. Preschool wasn't fine. Middle school wasn't fine."

It was something else entirely. Krin's train of thoughts came to a halt. It wasn't about his father. It was different.

"I couldn't talk."

Shiro's hands formed fists, clutching his pants as it curled up not in a blinding rage but by a gushing flow from dammed emotions, pent up years prior.

"I was alone. It was okay. It used to be fine. It's not. It wasn't."

The swirling red in his eyes burst out into a brilliant, violent crimson explosion. Feelings surged out from inside, thrashing throughout his body.

"I wanted friends. I couldn't talk to them. It's hard. I know how to. I just can't."

His chest rose and fell erratically. It breathed on sharp dives and uneven flows. His expression was calm. But anyone with a working eye could tell otherwise.

"I want to talk. Chat. Gossip. With anyone."

He lifted his head up, his snout shadowing over the bridge of his nose.

"I need help."

He spoke in closed eyes, his breaths slowly returning to his control. Silence trailed off along with his words. They flowed across the empty train, slowly fading into the cold, chilling air.

He'd said it. He'd finally said it.

Krin took in every word. Every pronounciation and every syllables. They resonated in her head, firing off along with the billions of nerves and neurons in her mind.

She no longer looked for words. They were all out of the closet, open to another one after years of concealment. They were out in the open after being hidden for so long. They were free from the pressure; free from the stress; free from the build up.

It's your turn, a tiny voice sparked at the back of her mind.

She gazed at Shiro. Stared into the faint, pulsing redness of his eyes. They were apparent. He needed something in return. He let everything out like he had nothing to lose and there it all went.

He's naked to the world now. He needed comfort. He needed something else to latch on to now. He's gone and done it and now he needs something else to hold on to.

He needs you, the voice whispered.

He said it to no-one else but you, it said. You're all he has left now. He has nothing and you have everything on him.

Should she really tell him? How she couldn't bear the stares and glares from her back? How she was too big for the world? How her help unneeded and unnecessary?

How she was just another nuisance to the wide population of the world?

Her story seemed miniscule and whiny compared to Shiro's. Like the glares once said,

Go away. We don't need you.

The unworded speak welled up in her mouth. They were there, unwilling to release and unable to swallow, stuck in the depths of her choked up throat when she realized.

She didn't need to. It's sitting right there in front of her eyes, in a form of a troubled wolf, fragile and vulnerable to the world.

The lump eased and the words disappeared into a cloud of smoke, seeping through the seams and cracks of her bony jaws.

"You did just that, didn't you?"

They kept their gaze on each other, their eyes unmoving and unfaltering.

"You took your first step and gave it your all,"

"It wasn't the best, but it's your best,"

"That's all it matters now, isn't it?"

Her words came as natural as air. They came in an unbreakable flow. Her voice came reassuringly, a soothing atmosphere suspending over.

She rolled her hand to the side and met Shiro's. His fur pressed against her scales, brushing it as she clutched her claws covered his pads. She held it up between her fingers.

Their gaze stayed unfazed. Unblinking.

"I can help,"

"I may not be the best with my words. In fact, I don't think I ever had a knack with them,"

"But I can help. I can get you on your feet. We'll get you friends. We'll break your norm. Together."

Her fingers gripped harder than before. Her words grew louder in confidence. Louder in passion.

"Ten. Ten trusted friends by the end of the semester. That's your goal and that's my objective. For now you've done a swell job, for me. You've got yourself your first friend."

[C[She dropped his hands to her thigh. She rested her palms over it. A warmth enveloped his fingers, peaceful and relaxing.

"I'll be your first."

She spoke with an unfaltering voice. A voice that gave a calming sense of reassurance. A voice with every sense of seriousness in it.

Shiro's eyes stared. Then they fell. They landed onto Krin's thighs, where his hands rested on.

Krin glanced towards it. Her mind was a unwavering at first. A tad bit confused, even. She didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Nothing felt off not odd. It was a normal act, was it not.

That was until a few dozen decades worth of societal norms and years of human relation rushing into her mind along with a sudden, dawning realization of her words and actions.

"Ah," she shot up from her seat. Her bag trashed itself across her bountiful chest, flinging itself to her back as she stood up abruptly. She tossed her hands up, clasping the side of her snout, fruitlessly trying to silent the words that came out of her mouth carelessly.

In a frantic attempt to salvage the situation, she blurted out, "Ah, I, uh, well, I was trying to, you know, just, I'm, uh-"

"Thank you."

"I was really just, uh, I- eh?"

The red in his eyes shone in a different light. But the light wasn't his. It wasn't from Shiro. It was from somebody else.

"Thank you," he said again.

Shiro dropped his snout downwards. He picked the earphones from his collar. He slotted them back into his ears and closed his eyes.

Krin stood, her uniform creased, her hair tousled and her pose awkward. Then her panicking state slipped from her mind. She calmed herself down, her state of mind back to its normal, functioning ways.

The automated operator spoke from the speakers above, "Arriving Station X."

Krin looked at Shiro, slumped on his seat, his briefcase under his shoulders, lax in his usual, stern stature. She drew a long breath as silent as she could. Then she propped herself down back on her seat.

The train begun it's crawling halt. The smear of the landscape sharpened back to the setting sun, a brilliant gold spreading across the cloudless sky, drowning it's shine over the ever changing townscape.

A humming, piano-like tune seeped through Shiro's earphones.

"Sun is shinin' in the sky, there ain't a cloud in sight," they whispered.


	5. A Walk, A Shower and A Microwave Spaghetti

The dawning silence arrived with the gloomy darkness. The radiant, golden river of the evening sky dulled into a distant, cold black. The stars weren't there for the sky. So was the moon. It was just a large featureless, inky clarity of a cosmic canvass, woefully awaiting the day it gets painted by some sacred brush of pulsing stars and glowing moonlights.

The street he walked on was a wide, two-lane road with a houses to the left and a guard rail to the right. Beyond that was plain forestry. With the exception of the trimmed branches on the bordering trees, the scenery grew untamed on the other side. Shiro heard that there was a hill leading downwards further into the forest. He never cared to check.

The road stretched straight and far and endless. Streetlights shone dimly as they hung above him, seemingly lighting itself more than its brightening the road. An occasional parked sedan or truck or motorcycle showed up every minute of so, giving temporary company on his lonesome walk.

From the train station till where he is now, he had never made a single turn. It was one, endless strip of asphalt that spanned who knew how long. He didn't bother to find an end.

The light crunches of asphalt under his soles were the only thing complementing the music playing in his ears.

"The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night. And I think to myself, what a wonderful world," the melody yearned.

Earbuds in her ears, a stuffy uniform on his body and a flap-over briefcase under his shoulders, Shiro walked back to his apartment from the train station. It was a twenty minute journey from A to B. It was an easy journey too, only needing him to remember to turn right every morning at the apartment gates.

The morning walk wasn't as tiring as the evening counterpart, though. The notion of walking two and a half kilometres sounded much more tolerable before spending ten hours a day in school. The act, too, was just as that.

But Shiro enjoyed it. As droopy as his tail got, as crisscrossed as his fur got, as dry as his eyes got nor as sore as his limbs got, the walk was always the best thing about his way home. There was an indescribable, tranquilizing feeling to a stroll under a barren night. No matter how much his legs wanted to rest, his mind seemed to want more, every passing moment.

He arrived in a short minute later.

The apartment, or dorm, as Shiro rather it called, was an old, preserved and most possibly historic two-storey building. It was built upon a concrete base surrounded by rather large patches of grass and waist high rock walls.

The building itself was probably constructed during the bricklaying eras. It looked dated and weathered, with some beige paint peeling off the walls. The roof was zinc, showered upon by many years' worth of rain, granting its dark, tainted look.

The building was one-sided, facing the road. The doors were evenly spaced, with most looking old and cracked. There were only a handful that seemed occupied and even so, they, too, looked deserted.

There were a tiny, waist high gate on the corner of the walls facing the road. It was simple, with skinny, rusting poles simply welded against one another. They were all held by a wimpy brass latch that seemed to work more to keep the gate in place than for security reasons.

Shiro reached a hand over the gate and unlocked it. The hinges barely did their job as it did its utmost best on keeping the gate fixated as it creaked open. He pushed it back, slipping the latch back to its place.

The asphalt transitioned into patches of grass. They weren't muddy nor were they wet. They felt slightly boggy. Probably from the weather. The blades of grass glistened dully under the night sky, shuffling along as brushed against Shiro's shoes.

There was a pair of staircases that led to the upper floor. They were built out of stone, with a creaky guardrail on the side. Shiro walked up to it and made his way up. The view from above shifted. From below it looked rather short but the switch of scenery was tremendous.

Shiro could grab a peek of the rumoured slope. The trees slowly dipped down towards the flowing hill. Beyond that, just floating above the trees, was a bare silhouette of a mountainscape. It was dark and baked into the night sky, spanning out across the canopy, rising and sliding out of sight. It was a surreal sight, especially when you realise that civilization is only a bare few miles away from it.

The ceiling was low, almost a head's height higher than he was. The wall was as high as his chest, just enough for him to see everything that is to see. There wasn't any source of light in the hallway, though. He relied on muscle memory and the remaining glow of residual sunlight from the unseen, distant horizon to not walk into a wall. He stepped with care, just in case there was something for him to trip on.

His door was on the middle white, visibly repainted and had a silver '7' on the side. A metallic door was fixed into the wall below. A long, tiny slot was visible above it. Shiro opened onto the door and peeked into it. He was greeted back with a claustrophobic, metal enclosure. No mail, he thought.

He fished out a pair of keys from his briefcase. They were tiny, jingling and identical. He stuck it into the keyhole in the doorknob. It fitted like a glove. He twisted it open and pushed it in.

He was met with a mild smell of paint that has yet to leave since half a month ago. The sharp pang hit his mind, triggering his nerves as he stepped into the door. The inside was unlit, only dark shadows were present inside. Shiro could only make out a few things from the outside. He pulled the key from the door and jingled them in his hands.

I'm home, he thought.

He closed and locked the door behind him as he stepped into the darkness. It was pitch black. It wasn't as soon as Shiro brushed his hands towards his left. His paws felt a tiny, sloping bump on the wall along with several others, neatly placed next to each other. He stretched his hands open and pressed it all at once.

His apartment lit up almost instantaneously, the white walls lit in sudden brightness. Shiro stood at his entrance, his hands of the switches. Next to him was his shoe rack. It was small and barren apart from a pair of slippers and a pair of canvas. His slipped out of his school shoes. Almost immediately, his toes felt freed and liberated. He placed them along with his 'collection'. Above it was a singular, suction cupped key hook. He dropped his keys there, leaving the duo alone to its rightful place.

Shiro stepped inside, his soles meeting the chilled wooden floor. It felt heavenly. To his right was his kitchen. It was simple, miniature yet spacious. A wooden countertop was present on the side, separating the kitchen from the rest of the apartment with two wooden stools on either side. He had a fridge to the far end, with another L-shapped, marble countertop with wooden cupboards above. He had one sink, one stove, one microwave and one dish rack with three, lonely plates on it.

Shiro walked around the countertop and set his briefcase on it. He pulled out his phone. It was a boxy, tiny machine, compared to the large, flat stylish ones his classmates had. He never had the need for high tech phones. As long he could stream music and recieve calls, it was all he could've ever wanted.

The screen flashed up with a push of a button. Shiro paused the music and set the phone on the briefcase along with the earbuds in his ears. Then he started unbuttoning his school jacket. They slipped off from his shoulder. The stuffiness exploded off his body as soon it was off. He felt escaped and relived from the tight, formal constraints of the jacket. He bunched it up and set it on the stool next to the countertop.

He was left with his school pants, his socks and his white shirt, tucked into said pants. The shirt was crumpled and creased, mostly from the hard, crossed fur underneath. He turned to his living room, which only consisted of his sofa, a glass coffee table and a TV on a tiny stand with a console and a controller slotted underneath. He didn't need to walk much. It was a small apartment. He could lie down and stretch from his kitchen to his sofa with much ease.

A white curtain was draped over the wall on the end, shrouding his balcony under its thinly veiled fabric. Shiro liked gazing towards it. He never knew why. He looked back to the coffee table. His laptop was on it, white and plugged to the wall behind the sofa. Next to it was his a miniature, cube-like speaker. He flipped the laptop up and turned it on. Took him a good five minutes to set the thing up. His desktop was stock, alongside with the usual suspects - My Computer, My Documents, Recycle Bin.

There was something else, though, sitting silently at the left bottom corner of the screen. The app had a thumbnail of a music note.

play.mp3

It was just the name, the file type and nothing else. He hovered the tracking pad over it and double tapped it. The cursor flashes a quick loading icon before returning to its pointing state.

Then came silence.

"She's crazy like a fool," the speaker suddenly proclaimed.

"What about it Daddy Cool?"

Soft, electric guitar strings started vibrating under a disco-like, snapping beat beat. Shiro closed the laptop halfway and grabbed the speaker with him in his palms. He grabbed the jacket, now dangling from the stool to the same palm. He headed to his bathroom, hidden behind a foggy door directly opposite of his kitchen.

His bathroom was ceramic tiled along with half of the walls. It was compact. A sink, a toilet and a shower on the far end. There was a rail on next to the sink, on it draped a white towel. Below was a basket, plastic and rectangular. He dropped his jacket in it and placed the speaker on the sink.

"I'm crazy like a fool," the speaker announce aloud, "What about it Daddy Cool?"

Shiro stripped himself to the bare fur. He dropped his shirt into the basket along with his jeans. His boxers came last before his socks. He looked into the mirror. Turned around, checking his face. Nothing in particular, he thought. He flexed his body for a second. He was still in great shape. Some growing muscles here and there. He should probably return to the gym, someday.

He stepped into the shower. It was separated to the rest of the bathroom by a tiny ledge, keeping excess flowing water out. He stood under the shower cap, fixed directly on the ceiling. He twisted a knob. Soft, warm water started slowly draining down his body.

It was the best thing about his night. Not the walk, nor the odd, soothing scent of dried paint. It was the temperate, reliving curtains of water, seaming as it coursed through the knots of his fur. He felt the umbrella-like cover of water, drenching him in its tranquilizing embrace. He relished in it, feeling the endless rivers streaming through every crack and cervice of his body.

He twisted the knob back, much to his reluctance. The water pouring on his face slowly thinned, his snout surfacing back into the chilly air. He swerved his arm slightly to the side. Felt a bottle on the side of his paw. Shampoo, his mind went. Traced his claws to the mouth and pressed some on his other hand. Lathered it into a foamy bunch and applied it across his body. Ran his fingers through his limbs. He felt the little dirts and pieces, crumbling off his tired torso.

He turned on the shower once more. This time it was more than just water. It was foamy, spongelike bubbles and foams, peeling his fatigue apart, piece by piece, layer by layer. He felt the burning heat from the walk before cooling, steaming off his body rapidly.

The world seemed to slow down for a moment. The slight buzz of the silence pierced through the gushing water, seeping into his drowned ears. The music from before were downed to a bare, audible rhythmic audio. Daddy Cool didn't seem so crazy to him

Then Daddy Cool left the stage. Came was a man that went by Texas Red, hunted by a ranger with a big iron on his hip.

"To the town of Agua Fria rode a stranger one fine day," the speaker relayed.

Shiro heard the switch of tone. The electric guitar morphed into a banjo-like strum. It played fast, with a olden styled drag of a yawning voice. It sounded like a telling of a legend. A fall of a notorious one from a stranger whom he chanced upon, one fine day.

Shiro shut the knob. The water stopped and he stepped out, his legs much aware of the ledge. He was dripping wet, soaked ear to toe. His fur was tainted even darker by the water. Shiro grabbed for the towel. It slid off the rack as Shiro tossed it onto his head. It was a big towel, just enough to cover his upper body.

He scrubbed, rubbed and almost smothered his face in the towel. Same went with his body. He wiped it dry. His fur sprung back to life as soon as the towel went down. Then came his tail. It was his favourite part. He dropped the towel over it and grabbed it by the back end. With one jerk he yanked the towel against his tail. Water exploded from the end, shooting itself around the bathroom, from floor to wall to ceiling. He wagged it some more for good measure. Seemed good enough for him.

He hung the towel back onto the rack. He was refreshed. Clean and couldn't've been any more. The cool air blew onto his neck. A shivering jolt bolted through his nerves. It was a pleasant one, albeit a tad bit unexpected. His stretched about, twisting every stiff joint possibly left in his body. He grabbed the speaker off the sink. Then he opened the door and walked out, bare and naked to the open air.

He came back out to the apartment and made a sharp left. There was another door, this time wooden, a mere meter away from his sofa. He opened the doorknob and walked in. It was his room. White walled with wooden flooring below. It was a simple one too. A cupboard on the wall, a chair and a table on the other and a bed at the corner. A florescent light tube hung above, illuminating the room in a bright white light.

He dropped the speaker to the bed and swung open the closet. It was bare. Boxers and socks were neatly folded and bunched underneath with a stick of deodorant on the other side, hidden in the far end corner. Hung on a singular pole was his two other remaining school uniforms, the previous one resting in the bathroom's basket. Next to them were two sets of the same windbreakers. They were black, stripped and empty.

Just the way he liked it.

He picked a uniform and a windbreaker set off the hanger and tossed them to the bed. Squatted down a picked a boxer from the set. Chose the bottom one. Had to start with the oldest pile. He wore it and turned back to the bed. Took the hanger off the windbreakers and put them on. They were cold and stiff from storage. He moved about in them, wiggled here and there to get into the damn thing. Then he picked a sock and another boxer from the pile and left it on the school uniform. Tomorrow, he thought.

He closed the door and stepped back to the living room. He was fresh and clothed now. What's next?

A low grumble from his stomach answered the riddle.

A list of recipes ran through his mind. Maybe a quick chicken breast would do the trick. Rice dolloped with a blanketing fried egg would be nice too. Some frozen mixed vegetables to top it all off as well. He stepped to the kitchen, placing the speaker on the countertop. The fridge sat patiently on the end, awaiting his arrival. He swung open the door and peeked into the contents.

There was half a jug of milk, three boxes of chocolate milk, a bag of ice and a stick of butter left in the fridge.

Oh right, he thought, groceries.

Shiro drew out a deep breath. He completely forgot. He reminded himself on the train and subsequently threw it out of his mind as soon as he stepped out to his station. He turned to the countertop where his bag still laid. He grabbed his phone along with the earphones. Slottes the earpieces into his ears and tapped play on the phone. He paused the speaker's oldie classic, making a silent promise to finish its solo.

He reached into his briefcase and fished his hands around. Came back out with a black, faux leather wallet. He dropped it into his other pocket, tucking it deep. He turned, walked to the doorway. He picked the key back up and worn his canvas from the rack, left to right. He unlocked his door and stepped back into the darkness outside. The sky seemed to darkened by another shade. He left the lights open, ensuring himself a swift return. He closed the door and locked it tight, dropped the keys where his wallet was.

The next door neighbor was home. Up till now he still didn't know who or what he or she or they was. Only knew that they would be gone when he leaves and back after he's home. He couldn't care more than that. He left apartment '6' alone and made his way to the gate.

The convenience store was a fraction of half a minute away. He only needed to make a quick turn into an alley on the side of the apartment. It wasn't even an alley. The houses on the side all had neck high walls where Shiro could easily see over. Behind the apartment was a playground. Slides, swings and see-saws. Fun for the kids with rock benches on the side for the adults. Surrounding it were more houses with more neck high, concrete security.

The convenience store was to his left the moment Shiro came out of the alley. It faced directly opposite the middle of the park. It was called Olsen. He didn't know whether it was named after the manager himself or anything. He looked like a franchise if it wasn't for the fact that Shiro hadn't seen another Olsen for the last sixteen years of his life.

The convenience store was the most basic convenience store of convenience stores. There was a few promotions here, a few posters there and not much else. No frosted drinks machine or anything of the sorts. Only instant coffee and microwave meals for the microwave behind the counter. Shiro grabbed a basket and did the usual. Packs of rice, bags of mixed vegetables, a jug of milk, trays of fish and meat and an unexpected choice for today, microwave macaroni.

It was an impulsive move. He never had microwave meals since years ago when his father got a bit more tired than usual and decided that Shiro should have his first taste at quick meals during his runs for beer. This could be his second time having a microwave meal. He knew his mother would vehemently (and quietly) deny but hell, he was living alone for once after a good half a month. It wouldn't kill to try one again.

The cashier was a reptile. A green gecko who's been behind the cash register since Shiro moved in. He had a uniform polo shirt, ripped jeans on the bottom and a serviceable voice coupled with it, now sounding even more tired than usual, considering its well over eight when Shiro last checked.

"Good evening," the gecko announced.

Shiro nodded. He propped the basket on the register and the gecko got to work. He looked accustomed to his barcode scanner as he picked the items one by one, scanning them with an impressive speed and he dropped it into a giant plastic bag. Shiro enjoyed watching watching him work. He fantasized himself being in his place. It wasn't an ideal job but if the worse comes to the worst, it wasn't a bad alternative either.

"That'd be sixty," the guy said. He dropped the basket under the counter and replaced it with a bulging plastic bag, handing the ears to Shiro.

Shiro drew his wallet out. With a practiced flick, he opened the flap and locked it with his fingers. He slot a thumb into the flap, his wallet hanging perilously over the end of his palm. Shiro didn't seem to care. He drew out a hundred and closed the flap with his remaining fingers, handing the bill to the gecko with his thumb and index finger.

"Neat trick," he handed the bill and slotted it into the register. Pulled out two twenties which Shiro recieved, pulling the same trick again but in reverse. The reptile seemed impressed by it, much to Shiro's amusement and childish (hidden) smug. He was about to head back out when the gecko spoke again

"Want me to heat that up for you," the reptile offered, pointing a finger into the bag. Shiro stared for a while. Why not, he thought. He pulled out the macaroni and handed it to him. With a smooth turn he knocked the microwave door open and slid the meal inside. With a twist of an arm and elbowed the door closed, simultaneously punching some numbers into the machine as he did. The glass dish inside started spinning under a glowing, yellow heat under half a second after it went in.

The gecko turned back, only to see Shiro's eyes gazing towards the microwave, a hint of disbelief in his swirling red eyes. The gecko smirked.

They waited for a quick three minutes. The microwave beeped open. The gecko flicked the door open and dropped the meal onto the counter. He fetched a set of plastic utensils from a small, metal can beside the register. Plopped it on top of the cover.

"Enjoy," the gecko announced.

Shiro picked the tray into his hands. They were steaming hot, warm enough to melt the chilliness of the inside air. He figured he should say something back. Something short and consise, enough to give a sense of gratitude back.

"You too."

It took a second and the gecko's confused expression to tell Shiro what went wrong. He rewinded the tape, back to when he said those words in his scratchy, deep voice. Then he realized. He stood there rigid for a moment, macaroni in his hands.

Get out, his primitive mind told him. Get out while you still have your pants on.

He gave the cashier a quick nod and ducked out of the store. Stood on the entrance, reliving the moment back-to-back, wondering how the hell it went wrong. He shook his head, trying to forget whatever happened from before. He looked down to the meal on his hands. It was still warm. He should probably eat it while it still is.

There was a bike locking pole, sitting vertically in front of the store. Shiro propped himself on it, leaning against the glass. He dropped his groceries on the floor and took a deep breath.

This time his earphones weren't playing vocals. It was a piano piece. Shiro didn't remember downloading it. It started off with two, light notes, signalling a start before jumping to the bottom. It was four, smooth notes playing in quick successions with a short accompaniment on the side. It climbed all the way to the high notes before slowly dropping to the middle. Then came three, quick sets before the tone sets itself in, flowing into a complex yet light piece.

Shiro remembered. 'Sweet Bye and Bye', he recalled. He didn't know how he knew of the music but here it was, playing into his ears. He wasn't complaining either.

Shiro snapped open the meal. Steam burst out from the wet insides. Shiro broke open the plastic and drew out a spoon. He scooped up s bunch and tasted it. It was terrible. It was bland, flavourless and insipid. It was dry too, like it had lost all moisture to the cover from the microwave. But at least it was warm, Shiro thought.

Warm enough to make him forget his previous screwup.

It was a short-lived moment, though. The gecko came out with a can of coffee in his hands. He probably spotted Shiro outside and thought of a break. He seemed to enjoy his decision. He came out with a latte in his hands, a sigh from his mouth and his slit like eyes staring into the clear night sky.

The gecko turned to the side, meeting Shiro sitting on the bike lock pole, his face ducked deep into his posture. Shiro didn't dare to meet his eyes. He didn't dare to see the disgust behind his misspeak.

"Bah, it's fine. Forget about it. Even I do that sometimes," the gecko reassured, "at least you said something, unlike some folks around here."

Shiro heard his words and digested his thoughts. He slowly turned to the side. He expected a condescending look, a pitying one, even. He didn't. He got an understanding look and a half grin instead. It belonged to someone who knew his side of the story.

Shiro gazed at him for a second. Then he nodded, reserve in the act.

The gecko took a sip from his can, "Y'know, I've seen you a dozen times and you haven't spoke a single thing till' now. Why is that?"

Shiro turned to him again. This time there was question in his eyes. He thought about his question. Was he really silent for the past weeks? He didn't say anything. He recalled the last half a month. Couldn't come up with a single thing.

Were those really his first words?

Shiro replied with a shrug. The gecko gave it a "Hm" before taking another sip.

"Should probably get your name at this point, since I'll be seeing your more often," the gecko said, raising his can, "name's Doug. You?"

Shiro looked at him. Surprised for a split second. It was the second time anybody had offered their name for today. A new record.

"Shiro," he replied.

"Cool name," he commented, "sounds foreign too."

Shiro nodded to the statement. The silence reared its head for a spell. A mild gust blew from the alleys, brushing its chilling body past the two men.

The gecko drew a long sip from the can. He looked up to the sky again, "Good night tonight, huh?"

Shiro heard him. He looked up. The sky was black. Clear, cloudless and empty.

"Yes," he answered.

He took another bite from the macaroni. It was still terrible. It was still bland, flavorless and insipid. It was even drier than before, like the wind had picked up the last of the moisture with it.

But at least it was still warm.


	6. Not One, Not Two, But THREE Foosball Tables

Shiro woke up to a bare, white ceiling. At first, everything was ordinary. One would wake up to a morning, and that morning will be full of light, so a white ceiling would be something you'd see first thing in the morning.

But then it was out of the ordinary because peripheral vision exists. And Shiro's peripheral vision told him that ceilings wouldn't be without walls. He was sleeping against the wall, so he should be able to see his shadow. But he didn't.

Then he realised he was standing upright.

Shiro stood awoke from an unknown slumber. He stood awoke, rough furred with the aftertaste in his mouth he'd get every morning. He was thirsty, dressed in his sweatshirt and sweatpants and barefooted.

His eyes took some time to adjust themselves. They were blurry at first. Then they weren't. But Shiro wasn't so sure. He was staring at a blank white landscape. It wasn't a room nor was it a place. It was just white. So white that he when he looked down he couldn't see his shadow. Only his feet were present, with the hair standing in every possible direction.

He rose his left arm. It felt numb. Most definitely from his sleep. He swung it around. Stretched his wrist and snapped the joints back in. Shiro felt his elbows and shoulders clicking back to place as he moved it around. It was usable, controllable and still attached to his torso.

He did the same to his right. Then his left leg. Then his right leg. Then his neck. They were okay. They were fine. They were alright. They were usable, controllable and still attached to his torso.

He lifted a paw. The claws on his fingers were filed some weeks ago. They were growing moderately. Probably a few more weeks before its next filing session. He bunched those fingers together and made a fist. The fatigue lingered around in his palms. He crunched his fist in, forcing his hand alive. Then he punched himself in the ribs.

He punched his ribs hard. He brought every inch of energy flowing through every seam and corner of his body and concentrated them all into his knuckles. Then he flung it towards his chest with the might of a miniature wrecking ball. It thumped against his chest and bounced back off with considerable force. It was painful. He staggered a little from it, threw up some air from his mouth as the blow rippled through his body.

Alright, Shiro thought. I can see. I can use my body. I can feel pain.

I am awake.

So where am I?

Shiro expected to see his apartment. He expected to see his TV. Expected to see his coffee table with his laptop, Bluetooth speaker and phone and earphones on it. Expected to see his mini kitchen with his flap over briefcase still sitting on the stools next to the counter. But he didn't.

He only saw white.

He only sensed white.

He only breathed white.

He only tasted white, with a hint of tiredness in it.

"Hey, Shiro."

He only heard an old man call him.

He only heard an-

Wait.

Shiro turned around over his shoulders.

What.

He no longer saw white.

He saw his old living room. The living room where his mother and his father and himself used to sit and watch sitcoms and drama and news together on the family couch every weekend. He only saw a part of it, though.

The living room seemed to have started from the wooden coffee table on the middle, newspapers, magazines and a mug strewn all over the surface. Underneath it a wooden floor spilled all across the ground. It reached out no further than the walls, where it starting stretching upwards before blending back with the white.

The living room had a dated, boxy TV sitting atop a cabinet with the ancient like antennas stretching from above. The coffee table sat between the TV and a couch that faced the TV from the other side. It was brown, old, torn and made of some wooly fabric that Shiro enjoyed napping on.

On it was his father.

He looked exactly like Shiro. Short snouted with thin, irregularly patched fur. He also looked like the opposite of Shiro. His fur was dark grey. It was the kind of dark grey you would identify it as once put next to black.

Yet, he also looked nothing like Shiro. Or what others would usually say, Shiro looked nothing like his dad. He was considerably wider than Shiro. (In size, of course, not mass.) A constant smile was worn all-day everyday. He always looked older than Shiro, like they were born at the same time and he had seen the future first and it had worn him and aged him.

He was on the couch, uncouth and sprawled across half of the space. He had his legs crossed, tail swept to the side and an arm over the headrest to another side. He had a can of his favourite brand of beer in his paws and the television remote on the other.

He looked exactly as how Shiro remembered him. In his uniform half open, a dirty white shirt underneath and an unbuckled pair of long pants coupled with outstretched, sock-less toes taking in free space after its release from its woollen confines. He was facing Shiro, raising the can over the vacant spot.

"Wanna watch?"

Shiro stared in silence. Millions upon millions of his brain nerves and brain cells all sparked and lit up simultaneously. Thoughts scrambled through his head as they rushed to various places in his mind. Conclusions clicked in place along with speculations. They all joined and completed the puzzle.

Dream, Shiro thought.

Lucid dream, Shiro thought specifically.

How else could he see his father? He watched his coffin lowered six feet into the ground. There wasn't any other explanation to it. It was either a dream or he died in his sleep and managed to ascend (or descend) to his father. He preferred the former. Though if it was the latter he would've pointed his finger to the macaroni from last night. Atrocious, it was, even for microwaved food standards.

Shiro digested all the thoughts into his head and swallowed them all in one big gulp. It was a massive gulp to swallow. Even bigger when coupled with a shaky excuse that it's all "just a dream".

But it was a gulp he's willing to swallow.

He walked towards the couch. Towards the spot his father had saved for him since who knew when.

The ground turned from a cold, invisible feel to an equally cold but wooden feel. The empty seams between the planks whispered a distant memory in his mind. A nostalgic, faraway past evoked as he felt the floorboards under his soles.

He felt as if he was a few sizes to big for the world he'd once been in. He couldn't recall only having to take a step between one plank, or having the coffee table shorter than his knees. He propped himself into the couch. It stayed as soft as it were the last time he slept on it. The headrest was well below his neck now, among other things.

Then he felt a paw, patting his head from the side.

"Damn," his father went, "you weren't this tall back then."

Shiro turned and look. The dream version father looked impeccable from the original. He looked no different, as if he was just the same man Shiro saw on his last night two years ago. The same slouched posture, the careless attitude and the complete disregard for manners whatsoever, like he was relaxing at home after a dawn to evening job and acted every bit of it.

The smile on his face was still there. It looked tired, the kind you'd see from a salaryman, except this one tackles bad guys to the ground for a living. It was a wan lopsided grin that spoke of nothing but joy of seeing one's son after work.

"How much," he guessed, "a quarter meter? A quarter feet? Maybe a few inches?"

Shiro just gazed into his father's eyes. They were grey and shallow. A complete opposite from his mother and himself. His father took a rather simple route on the pupil department. It was basic and simple. You could stare at it for ages and come up with nothing but "it's just a pair of eyes". Not Shiro though, he could stare at it for ages and come up with "it's my father's eyes".

"I don't know," Shiro answered.

Shiro pushed himself against the sofa. His rear now sat against the end, his tail pushed to the side. Then he realized something else he was now looking down to his father. His father used to taller, now he's shorter. By a decent margin, even. His father was a good 180 cm. Shiro was staring down from a comfortable 3 inches higher.

"Half a meter," his father said, "definitely half a meter now."

Shiro didn't comment on that. He merely stared at his father.

"My boy," his father said.

"Growing up so fast down there."

Down there, Shiro thought.

Shiro's father took a sip from his beer when Shiro asked, "Is this heaven?"

His father waited a few seconds before answering. He kept the beer stuck to his lips, gulping gallons till the bottom went up. Then he lowered the can, dropping it to his thighs, turning to face Shiro.

"You think heaven would let me do this?"

Shiro stared in silence. Then he nodded, bobbing his head as he glanced towards the television.

His father's favourite movie was on it. Shiro couldn't remember the name for the life of him. He only knew because of the girl in the scene. Short haired, dressed in a blue, braided dress while flinging herself all across a green, crisp landscape under a lucid blue sky.

"The hills are alive with the sound of music!" the girl proclaimed.

The can rose from Shiro's father's hand again, but this time towards Shiro himself. "Hold this."

Shiro grabbed it, he felt the chilly sides. He instinctively wiped the cold sweat from the can on his sweatshirt. There were none. It was just a cold, dry can of beer. Then Shiro felt the weight. It wasn't empty. Far from it. It was full. Filled to the near brim. Mere millilitres from spilling out onto his hands and onto the couch.

Then his father elbowed his shoulder before he could start asking questions. He turned back to the side. His father was holding another can. But it wasn't beer. It was a can of apple juice. With "juicy, explosive pulps" as mentioned on the can.

"Here, you'll like it," his father said.

Shiro held his paw out, preparing to trade for the other can when his father notched the ring open with his claws and went bottoms up. Shiro only watched as he downed the whole can. Juice and pulp and all. All in one go.

He dropped it back onto his thighs. Turned to Shiro with a smirk to his face.

"Now look at your hands," he said.

Shiro's mind was twisted further as the series of events go. His father was indeed a playful one but he'd never go this far as to down a whole can of juice he offered in front of his son. He looked back to his hands, only to see the can of beer replaced with the can of apple juice. The ring was open, the inside filled. Juice, pulps and all.

Questions mounted one by one like Jenga, only few more blocks away from toppling down into a spiraling, dark abyss of confusion.

His father provided an answer in a form of howling laughter. He burst out, his cheeks puffing in great humour while a hearty laugh bellowed from within.

"Oh man," he wiped a tear off his squinting eyes, "you should've seen the look on your face. Oh man..."

Shiro couldn't've seen the look on his face. He couldn't've felt it. He was confused, surprised and mesmerized. It was just a sudden series of events that unfolded in the most unexpected way imaginable.

He didn't know what to ask. He didn't know what was there to know. Everything just happened.

His father, on the other hand, seemed to have all the answers. He let out the last of his laugh and giggles. He heaved in breathes and burst out on several other occasions. Shiro watched as he tried to contain himself back in. Took him at least eight deep breathes and one self reassurance.

He calmed himself, his ear-to-ear grin seeping back into his mouth, composure coming back onto his face. He didn't speak for a while.

They sat under the white, neverending background, watching the girl twirl in bliss in the fuzzy TV screen without a hint of worry in her mind, the frizzy song running through the olden machinery. They gazed in silence, the murky sound filling the empty spaces around.

"No Shiro," his father spoke, "this isn't heaven."

Shiro turned to look. His father stared at the screen, the mild colours projecting onto his face. His pupils were fixed, yet they wavered. He had a visage of pure serenity in his eyes. A peaceful mein. An aura of quiet.

He drew another breath.

"Heaven couldn't possibly be this lonely."

He took a sip from his can.

"Well, I couldn't possibly vouch that this isn't heaven. Maybe it's a waiting room. Maybe God changed plans and decided to develop another apartment on the southern hemisphere for overpopulation. Who knows? Way many folks died than the ones living down there. Maybe hell got it worse. Hell, I don't even know where I am. Up? Down? Who knows,"

He turned to Shiro, "God only knows."

Shiro said nothing. He listened and took in every word and sentence.

"Well, even if I couldn't possibly know where I am, at least God gave me this trick," he said.

He didn't face anywhere. He simply brought up an index finger. It pointed towards Shiro, aiming right on his nose. Shiro backed up an inch, watching the tip of his nail.

"Bang," he said.

Shiro heard his father. He closed his eyes, waiting for another strange thing to happen. Then he felt a tap on his nose. It was his father, calling him awake. "Look to the side," he said.

Shiro looked to the left. The once empty white now had a mahogany foosball table sitting atop. It looked just like every other foosball table anybody would see in a bar or a club. The only difference was that it didn't cast a shadow. It was nowhere. Not anywhere.

"Bang," his father said again.

Shiro turned back to his father, now pointing towards the coffee table, only now it wasn't a coffee table. It was the same, identical foosball table from before, blocking the TV behind. It was the exact same thing, mahogany and all. This time, though, it did cast a shadow on the wooden floor.

"Bang," his father said once again.

Shiro turned to the left again without being asked. This time the foosball table tripled. It was no longer a foosball table but three foosball tables. It was like one was built and the other two were dragged out of a mirror. They were identical in every conceivable way. Size, height and everything. They all cast no shadow.

"Cool ability, I know," his father said, "I get to will anything into anything. The ol' living room, the ol' TV, the ol' couch and a bottomless beer can. I could've willed for an airliner if I want to, anything at all."

Shiro looked to his father. He had a cheeky grin on his face. A cheeky grin that was stolen off a child's and plastered onto an adult's face. Yet, it didn't look out of place whatsoever. It looked like it fit right there out of pure nature.

Then the grin fell.

"Just not living things. That I have tried."

He sunk deeper into his seat.

"I tried hard."

He took a drag on his can. Shiro watched him drown his mouth into it. Then he brought up his own can and took a sip. It was true, the pulps were there. It just wasn't as explosive as the can said.

"How's ma?"

He turned to Shiro.

"She's still rocking that promotion of hers?"

Shiro nodded.

The grin came back.

"Good, good,"

"What about you, Shiro?"

Me?

Shiro's pa spoke as if he was clairvoyant.

"Yes, you, Shiro. There isn't anybody else here, is there?"

Shiro's jaw was ajar. He thought to himself for a while. Events from hours ago rewinding themselves and replaying over and over again on rapid speed. He thought of this and thought of that. Recalled his day like a tape on reverse. Compiled his memories and formed his words. Then he spoke.

"Made a new friend," he said.

A look of genuine bewilderment shot up in his father's eyes. "Really? Who's the guy?"

Shiro returned to his mind. He brought up a new revised file from his head. He strung open the file and pulled out a set of papers.

Krin

the paper simply read.

I can help.

I'll be your first.

A mild heat blown itself onto Shiro's face and his father read it like a book.

"Ah," he said, "so it's not a guy. Got it."

Shiro burned harder.

"Go get her, then, like I did with your mother."

Shiro stayed silent, his face in his paws, regaining his composure, soothing his drumming heart. He hadn't had time to recall the talk on the train and now that he had and did, he wished he'd done it in solitude, well away from his father.

"You've grown, Shiro."

He looked up, facing his father. He had a smile on his face. The smile he always had from before.

"From kid number twenty-five in the class to a woman chaser. You did have my genes after all."

Shiro didn't respond. He merely listened and stared.

"Now go, you've got a girl to talk to, don't you?"

Shiro heard his father. Then he felt his empty hands. The can was gone. He looked up to the TV. It was gone. So was the coffee table. So was the wooden floor. So were the foosball tables.

Only the couch remained.

His father stood up onto the white, featureless ground, the beer can still in his hands. He laid an paw on Shiro's shoulders.

"C'mon now," he said.

Shiro gazed towards his father. Then he stood. He rose onto the white floor, standing atop. He stood taller than his father, a mere half a head bigger than him.

His father kept his hands on Shiro's shoulders. Then it slid to his back. Then came another hand. Then came a hug. A rather tight one at that. One full of heart and emotion.

Shiro stood dazed. Then he raised his hands. Patted his old man in the back.

He stepped back, releasing his embrace. He stared at his son, taking in an eyeful. His expression was clear as the landscape beyond. He felt content and wore pride on his face.

"Good luck, son."

Shiro didn't answer. He merely stared. Merely gazed.

His father still read him like a damn book.

He pointed a finger to his back.

"Just keep walking straight," he said, "you'll find the light soon enough."

He stepped behind Shiro. Gave him a pat on the back. "I'll watch you go."

Shiro felt his father's gaze from behind. He stared into the distance. There were acres of nothing. Miles of emptiness. Kilometres of pure, white blankness.

Shiro took a deep breath. Then he took a step.

The ground still felt cold. Still felt chilly. His shadow was still not there. They seemed to be hidden. Maybe inside his sweatshirt. Maybe.

He kept his pace, going no further than a few steps every passing second. A ghastly, rhythmic beat played in his heart, sounded in his mind as he walked. He tread through the vast nothingness, towards the light, or awaiting its eventual arrival.


	7. Ah, Might As Well Jump

His brushed jaws gleamed slightly under his fur. His body was washed, soaped and most essentially, rid of the morning fatigue. Energy coursed through his veins like electric currents, energizing his enthusiasm for the day, mainly because of the smooth routine he had today.

It was also because he checked his phone that morning and noticed a tiny little "Fri" next to the date and time, a sight he felt greatly pleased for.

A uniform on his body with a briefcase under his shoulders, Shiro sat on a concrete bench in the undergrounds of Station K, hands in his pockets, fiddling fingers underneath. He walked the best part of a kilometer or two from his apartment to where he was. The morning was young and chilly still. The sun had only begun to appear, cooking itself for much later onwards. He found refuge just before it begun baking the asphalt.

The subterranean station sat wide and tall, the kind where it still feels roomy even with a crowd. White tiles dominated the floors and walls, with mounted bulbs lighting them even brighter. A pair of murky tunnels wedged the station in between, with thin slits of sliding glass doors as separation.

A pair of escalators led its way above and below, with sides covered with sheet metal, shrouding the mechanical insides from view. Behind it sat an elevator that Shiro haven't once stepped in since the day he'd moved into the district. It was a box of glass, wide enough to squeeze four of him and high enough to slot himself in. Shiro himself was a good six feet tall which resulted the downside that he had to duck with every entry.

He took the escalators instead. He did it out of sheer sloth to free his hands and press the floor buttons, among other things. He was energized for the day but even then, a school day's morning had its limits.

Shiro took a round trip to the back of the station, back on his usual spot. He didn't choose the place especially. The first day he came to the station he decided to explore and after thirty seconds of finding a trash can and particularly nothing he took a seat on the concrete bench facing the elevators and from there on out it was his favoured spot. It wasn't that he preferred the seat. Quite the contrary, in fact. It's just that he never cared to go anywhere else.

The air circulated around evenly around the station. Everywhere was just as cold and hot as anywhere else. A ringing silence hung around, with the exception of the ancient air-conditioning blowing its usual low hum from above, barely steaming out cold air from its olden mechanics. It didn't make much of a difference. It was trying its best.

He never heard any of the ambient noises. He never noticed them anyway. His earphones hung from his ears most of the time. He could say the opposite, in fact. There wasn't a time where cords weren't dangling from the top of his head down to wherever he shoved his phone with him, be it his bag or his pocket.

And with the earphones came the music.

Shiro's addiction in music was legendary. Among the very few that knew Shiro, too, knew that music was his reverse kryptonite. His obsession with it made drug addiction look like a fun take-it-or-leave-it game show. No amount of fingers or paws could count the hours he'd spent scouring for songs, melodies, hymns or anything with a relatively catchy tune to his liking, much less listening to them. Since the first day he heard lullabies on the radio he'd never once had a day where music was never within earshot. If desperate times arrive, he'd resort to humming the tune out, as resentful as it may seem to him. So far he only did it twice. When he got his earphones he swore to himself there wouldn't be a third and so far, it hadn't failed.

Yet.

His playlist amounted to the thousands. Nearing five zeroes, at that. He had albums of garage rock, modern pop, EDMs, glitch hop and whatever genre there were out there on the market. He even had a collection of people making covers out of boom whackers, just for the sake of having them.

Shiro fished his phone from his bag. The tiny, bulky, boxy device fitted itself snuggly within his paws. It was made in the olden era where size meant more than performance and design. Where people cared more about fitting smaller handheld computers into pockets than having higher digits worth of power in their processors or megapixels on their front cameras. A plastic black covered every inch that isn't a screen. Scratches arched over here and there, both front and back.

He tapped on the side of the phone. A dull white flared up on the screen before fading to a generic, default mountainscape filling the background. White, pixilated numbers ticked against the mountains as seconds passed. Below it were the date and day, with a tiny clipart of a sun wedged in the middle, signaling a cheerful "sunny with no chance of rain".

A notification bar sat neatly in the bottom. It had sat there since the day Shiro got his phone. The bar was black and fat, with a music icon on the left corner. Beside the icon were the usual suspects - back, pause, and next. Rarely did the pause button ever changed to play.

Words scrolled through on the sides. Words that read "Van Halen - Jump (Remastered)".

Shiro knew nothing about the band. In fact, he wasn't sure whether was it a band or a name. He didn't know the singers nor the drummers nor the guitarists. He wasn't even sure whether were there any of those. He only knew of the tunes, the song, the rhythm.

The music.

The music was a simple repeating rhythm of a keyboard line. It was of the same note, filtered through who knew how many synthesizers. A lazy, drumming beat played in the background, fighting for domination with the humming strums of the guitars, battling together in a brilliant mess of a musical war.

The sounds burst out violently yet with elegance. The swirling combination flowed through as the sounds drowned out his senses. It was both of two worlds. Loud, brash yet sensible. Just the right amount of crazy in a delicate beat. Careless and meticulous.

At that point, Shiro couldn't care less. His mind screamed in protest as the beats rushed and pushed against the floodgates of his reasoning. Don't do it, his mind said. It's not even eight in the morning yet, don't do it. The floodgates screamed back in response. They couldn't hold it in. The rhythm banged and splashed against the crumbling walls, wailing out for its release. Tiny jets started sluicing out from the seams. Droplets size of saucers and dinner plates began dive bombing on the other side of his mental drought. Puddles flowed out from below and the sides, some bursting and some seeping out.

Don't, his mind protested, do not do it.

But it was too much to take.

It all happened at once. There wasn't even a transition or a moment to witness. It just didn't happen at one moment and did at the next. Like the night suddenly turn to day, or a building bursting into darkness in a blackout. The floodgates disappeared and evaporated like it just wasn't there. It was, but that was before the the music and the tune and the beats gushing from behind. The emotions all rushed up in one giant wave and one wave was all it took.

Gone was his sensibility, reasoning and four fifths of his sanity in one towering blast and came rushing in was the bane of his composure.

"I get up," the earphones chanted, "and nothing gets me down!"

I hear you Van Halen. I hear you.

As if spellbind, Shiro rose from his seat. His composure still remained on his posture. His eyes were closed. His hands deep in his pockets. The bag in his underarms and the earphones in his, well, ears.

But not his foot.

They stomped on the ground. At first they twitched about, going here and there with every catching beat. Then they rose. They shot themselves straight. Their bones began jerking within their muscular confines. It seemed as if every cell in his thighs and calves were exploding in a heat of the moment.

His left foot started first, simply tapping the tiles on the floor in quick successions. Then they tapped faster. Faster than accountant on the backspace key. Faster than a frantic author on a typewriter a day before her deadline. It simply didn't follow the rhythm. It was beating on its own, full of life and teeming with energy.

Then the right foot joined in, then Shiro wasn't tapping at all.

"You got it tououough, I've seen the toughest around," the earphones boasted.

He simply danced.

Shiro wasn't a trained dancer. In fact, dancing was never his thing. Never once had he stood up in determination, pump his chest and decide to learn the 'nae nae' or whatever was hot in the dancing scene. Never once had he watched talent on TV and decide to imitate his or her moves. He simply saw people doing it, give it a mental compliment and move on with his life. He never stopped to think "Hey, maybe I could do that."

Yet, right there at that very moment came the outburst. The dark side of the moon Shiro himself very much wished to keep at the dark side for as long as fate or destiny allows. It was the music. The music that altered gravity, broke the laws of physics and spun the moon so far the dark side emerged, burst out in blinding lights and erupted into the scene in multicoloured spotlights and smoke screens and fireworks.

He stood up and danced.

"And I know, baby," the earphones claimed, "just how you feel."

Those were the last words that ever came into Shiro's head. The rest were just part of the chaotic melody in his head. As long as the Shiro now cared, everything is either a beat or a note.

His face stayed poker, his eyes stayed closed and his hands stayed pocketed. His legs were a different story. They jolted erratically, spasming left and right, moments in swinging movements and moments where they simply jumped to the sides. They swished and sprang, going absolutely nowhere and everywhere.

Then he his tail went in the mood.

They flung about, following his legs. Then they picked up the pace. It bounced about below his back, its curled body swaying about from behind. Then it went flying. Its wings burst out in a sudden, crazed movement going in every direction possible. The fur blew across the air alongside with it, like a field of grass in a summer breeze, except this breeze was a whirlwind, and the bright lucid sky was a industrial, virginal white, and the summer chanted not of flowers but screamed of punches and "what's real".

Then his head got into the action.

His head nodded to the beat by a fraction. It was nothing erratic. It was a simple nod you'll see in greetings or wordless hellos but in repeat. The cords behind his face jiggled about as his head went. Then they started bobbing. His brain picked up the drums and strums as if they were signals and gradually twisted the output to his neck.

It wouldn't stop nodding. It wouldn't stop bobbing. It wouldn't stop at all. It just kept pulsing with the tunes, pulsing with the rising beats before going in full swing.

Then his body broke free from the shackles of reason and went wild.

His face was still poker, his hands were still pocketed and his bag is still under his arms but his body burst across the concrete bench like a marionette dangling by bungee strings. His feet sashayed across the floor, dragging and tapping and jolting and swaying by the hinges of his knees. His shoulders pumped up and down left to right like a piston on a jackhammer. His neck twirled and twisted as his head swayed in waves.

"I got my back against the record machine," the earphones cried.

For a moment, Shiro had his back against the world.

"I ain't the worst that you've seen," the earphones howled.

He danced like he hadn't seen the worst.

"Ah, can't you see what I mean?"

Heck if I knew.

Then a godly force slammed into his legs in a sudden force of nature. A lightning bolt of energy cracked through his body, dislodged all his joints and set his flesh loose in a jellying burst.

Shiro's knees bent towards the bench. His back arched inwards like a tumbling, towering skyscraper, all crashing down towards the floor in a heap of scrap, metal and rubble in slow motion. His shadow eclipsed his face, shrouding everything in a looming silhouette.

"Ah, might as well jump!"

All of his bones lashed out in a single snap. Like a lasso flinging itself back to shape. Like a whip snaking for another crack. They all coagulated in one, watery pile and snapped itself into solid ice, balling themselves into one crushing shape before springing out into one magnificent display of elasticity and explosion.

Shiro jumped.

He didn't just jump. He levitated for a split second. His knees sprung himself towards his soles, then to his toes, then the next thing he knew he was an inch of the ground. Gravity left the scene for that tiny instant as he spun. He opened his eyes, the ruby like red being opened to the dam, to the glorious moment he basked at that very breath.

Colours meshed into an unrecognisable mix as everything streak past. The white faded into a transparency. The black of the tunnels paled together into pure emptiness. Everything turned to nothing and nothing morphed into everything.

Everything became a running stream of colours and movements. He felt suspended into the cold air, like some force dangling him by his shoulders as his eyes witnessed the one, holy moment in his eyes.

Everything stopped as they went. The beats dragged out in one note. The strum reverberated in his skull as the drums echoed through his mushed up brain.

Nothing was real and everything felt surreal. Like a hallucination, or a dream. He could feel everything and simultaneously lost all his senses.

Nothing was solid, nothing was static.

The walls were rivers.

The floor were streams.

The ceiling were skies.

Krin was watching.

The tunnels were creeks.

The lights were nothing because then gravity struck.

Krin is there.

Everything fell back into pieces at once. It snapped back all at once as abruptly as it began. The waters and the music and the tunes and the beats snapped back behind the floodgates that suddenly and magically re-emerged. His body snapped back solid and his reasoning and sensibility and four fifths of his sanity whipped back in an instant.

He was slammed back onto the ground faster than gravity could manage. Everything fell and smashed and crumbled and dusted away all in one tiny fragment of a second.

The station morphed back into the station. His body returned disenchanted. Energy reverted from his legs. His neck snapped back solid. His face was the only this that changed.

He kept his cool poker. His snout was straight and unmoved. His nose stayed where it was. The only thing that was different was his half-opened, starry red eyes that gazed to the front like he was half-woken.

Or shell shocked.

There Krin stood, in front of the just descended glass casket that is the elevator. She was as huge as she was yesterday. The same two-sizes-too-big-for-this-world as before. A white, buttoned shirt hugged her body, tightening around her rather bountiful chest with some struggle, tucked in her plated, short-hemmed skirt that ran just above her knees. The shirt arched over her body like a tent as the shirt seeped out from its entrapment under the skirt. It wasn't making progress. The skirt was one tough bastard.

Her hair was combed and like yesterday, curtained the end of her bony, skull-like snout. The only thing that wasn't like yesterday was her affromentioned snout.

One hand clung to the strap of the grey sling bag draped over her shoulders and clung to her body. The other one was on the side of her snout. Both the hand and the snout was ajar. Her sharp claws rested over her nose as her jaws suspended over the unseen hinges of her mouth. Both moved erratically, unsure of what to act next.

Shiro stared at her for a long moment.

-

Krin didn't know what to say. She came down this morning riding the elevator down to the station with another normal morning in her mind.

She fitted half of the elevator and had to permanently duck down for half an inch as it descended. She didn't care anyway. As long as it isn't the escalators.

Then she saw Shiro. He was shifting and bouncing and swaying left to right. His earphones bobbed and tripped and jumped on the side of his head. His tail wagged like it was injected with all the happiness in the world.

Krin saw it all. She witnessed his little personal performance all while the elevator silently and slowly descended. It stopped below and the glass doors sprung open, revealing Shiro's moves in full glory.

She stepped outside, thinking of giving her new librarian buddy his first "Good Morning" from her. Then, as her reached out to tap his shoulders, he ducked down and sprung forwards.

Then, as he spun, Krin saw the look on his face.

Her reflex yanked her hand back and momentarily blocked her view of his expression. She relied on the afterimage on that one tenth of a second as the view slowly burnt itself into her memory. His eyes were closed, his snout faced upwards and his ears perked like a mountaintop.

The elation in his face was the highest she'd ever seen on anyone.

That elation was gone. Now he only stared, his scarlet red eyes half-opened. She could see the pupils wobbling within. She couldn't tell the emotion behind it but she had an idea.

Her jaws moved, but they formed no words. It went on for a quick three seconds before she could muster.

"Good morning," she greeted.

Her voice quivered from her throat. She didn't know whether to give his antic a laugh like an old friend or act like nothing happened. She struck a middle chord, adding a tiny chuckle to the mix and failing miserably at that.

Then Shiro's mouth mumbled too. His words took longer than Krin's. A good five seconds of tiny, minuscule movements before he could officially grumble out the first words for this morning.

"Good evening," he muttered.


	8. Bonus: Mule, ‘Pivot’, Elephant

A few dozen miles away from District K laid one of the state's most infamous traffic jams. The roads were already six lane wide per direction but being the sole arteries leading the big city, they were bound to be clogged. From a bird's-eye view it was a sea of gleaming grey, with spots of yellow popping up occasionally.

The city planners weren't at fault though. Having tens of thousands of motorists all in a single two-hour morning time frame, the outcome was inevitable. The planners did good enough not to stretch the congestion to the next District.

The train system did most of the work. They shaved of an estimated 40% of the traffic. Added with the newly implanted buses the figure upped to an optimistic 50%.

Nevertheless, the grey, metallic sea remained on the highway, only rearing its overwhelming tide on one side in the morning and the other in the evening.

The woman sat in one of the splotches of yellow among the grey sea. A cat, she was, bordering middle-aged and looked none of it. Her fur was a pale orange, with streaks of white covering her legs and back. Her paws and tails ended on a snow-like white, completing the look of a very average city cat.

Yet, as told, she was none of it. Far from it, even. Not a single quality of commonness and averageness could be seen on her. She was the epitome of never judging books by their covers.

She looked as if she was at her golden age. Bring up her IDs and you'll think she's a witch. She might as well be. She had been in her prime for over a decade or two and well on her way to her third. She wasn't a model nor was she gorgeous but she could turn heads. If 'beautiful' wasn't the word to it, 'well-preserved' would be a close second.

She was on the shorter side of the height spectrum. She wasn't comically tiny but she still needed a stool for the top shelf.

Her expression had a permanent immaculacy to it. One look and you could tell she wasn't a frequent smiler, or one at all. She looked wrinkle-free because she never once did anything more than a poker face. They stayed flat, expressionless and untouched, like they've seen it all and hadn't seen anything new since. Most would call it a shame. She was quite the looker for her age.

She sat firmly on the passenger seat, the old, stuffy fabric of the cushions eating her miniature figure as she slowly sunk deeper into it. She was dressed uniformly; short-sleeved and a plain short hemmed skirt that looked like it came straight out of the illustrated definition for 'work-wear'.

Her driver was an equally aged human, coated heavily and seemed moulded onto the driver's seat. He was shaved, wrinkly and looked a decade older than his files suggest. He had every boxed ticked in the standard taxi driver look. A sagging yet content bags under his eyes, confidence in every turn and miscellaneous trinkets on his cabin. Beaded-backrests, dangling dices on his rearview mirror and cans of emptied coffee on his dashboard.

The man urged himself not to talk to the woman. He was a talkative one, always attentive to his passengers and a great listener too. His job was way beyond well-paying but listening to the ups-and-downs of the many Districts' inhabitants seems good enough of a pro for his work. He'd usually have a chat with his customers, giving advice, pieces of his mind, among other things. Years of experience gave him enough clues and signs to whether his passengers were looking for a friendly converstation with a stranger.

This cat, however, had all the signs pointing towards a big red, flashing billboard with the neon-coloured words saying 'no'.

The man was already trying his best. At first he was surprised that his third passenger of his early day just so happened to be the woman he sees on TV every night at eight in the nightly news. She was but an anchorwoman, far beyond the reaches of stardom but nevertheless, someone from TV is now sitting next to him, live and breathing.

Famous person, his primitive mind said.

Anchorwoman or not, he would very much like to point the obvious fact out, just for the heck of it.

The woman, though, had her social gates closed and locked tighter than a heavy-duty zip tie. The moment she stepped in she gave a fashioned "Good Morning", her destination with a "please" at the end and nothing else. Since then her sights were set on the scenary outside and the occasional checks on her phone, now hidden snuggly in her purse.

The congestion now gave nothing interesting for the outside view but the dull sedan that had been sitting beside for the last fifteen minutes. Her phone, too, seemed to offer nothing for her interest.

The perfect time for a talk, the man thought.

Should he? Should he not? If he did, would she appreciate it? Would she give a half-assed reply or just a stink-eye? Would she be one of those crazies that call out harassment suits out of nowhere? No way of knowing, unless…

The man ran a quick debate in his mind under his beanie. Yes? No? Maybe? Should I? Maybe I shouldn't. But should I?

His mind ran for a quick second. Then his brain was set. It took a deep breath within its bony confines and sent the results to him mouth.

"So," the driver asked, "you work with the news, I suppose?"

He spoke in a rising tone, his voice tuned to the absolute perfect impression for a curious man wanting to know a little bit about the woman sitting next to him in a traffic jam. He held his breath, waiting for a response.

He got one. It wasn't a verbal one but rather an expression. She turned from the window and faced the man. It wasn't a stink-eye, nor was it an eager mouth wanting to answer. Rather, it was a question to his question. Her poker faced stayed but he already knew what her words were. He'd put a confident five that they were "How did you know?"

He looked half a second longer at her slit, cat eyes.

What a beautiful red, he thought.

"I see you every night, ma'am. On the telly, eight on the dot," he said.

She gave another wordless response. A formal nod that meant nothing more than a simple sign of understanding. She looked back to the window. Back to her usual spot.

It turned quiet for a spell. The blast from the commotion outside were reduced to mere hums within the steely confines of the taxi, harmonizing with the rings of silence. The old, busted air-conditioning whirred as it did its best. The aging creature growling under the hood muffled in protest, longing for another open road to stretch its aching limbs.

Alright, the barrier's broken, he thought. Quick, before it goes cold again.

His mind ran quick. Words sped through my head, forming and articulating every possible sentence he could think of. He chose the best out of the few. "You know, you should leave early by tomorrow. Bout' an hour or two," he suggested, "by then you would've been at your station and I'll be on my fifth customer."

"Just saying," he added.

The cat remained quiet, as if words had fell on deaf ears. Then she reared her head and spoke, for the first time in thirty minutes, "It's fine. I don't start work until noon."

Her voice was just as anybody would've imagined for an anchorwoman. Soft, crisp, clear with an ever lingering sense of professionalism no amount of cynicism could deny. It's exactly the voice you'd expect to hear giving a news report or spilling the latest political beans.

"Ah, well, just saying," he said again.

Good job, Maurice, he thought to himself. Way to go. The ice is gone and gone as good as ever.

The man allowed a much needed silence. He found it to be a great transition through topics. It gives a illusionary sense of a patient man, all while preventing from looking like a nosy talker. At least that was what he read from the magazines his passengers usually leave.

Few seconds passed. The journey inched forward by a fraction. He ran a quick calculation in his head. He estimated at least three quarters of an hour's worth of traffic crawl.

He thought of more words. More sentences. Chose the low-hanging fruit among the choices. "So, you like working there," he asked.

She didn't look back. Her crimson eyes were fixed on the generic sedan beside. "It's fine," she claimed.

That's what she claimed, though. Years of hearing tones and words and talk told him otherwise. He'd spent the last decade listening to stressed out, nine-to-five workers blowing steam and ranting and babbling about managers and bosses and customers and their general hatred for anybody above them in the societal hierarchy. He'd heard hours of confessions and complaints better and more honest than any talk show on radio or TV. He'd heard tones and voices and speeches more than any close friends or relatives would ever listen.

All those culminating years of experience heard the woman's words and gave one conclusion. It was a cliché conclusion. A conclusion you could see from a mile away, flashing neon signs with fireworks that spoke of the words: It's not fine.

Not even a poker face nor a crisp, newscaster tone could save this one. It was so obvious it might as well been a rainbow colored sign hung around her neck saying 'it's not true'.

He gave her some time. He had more than enough experience to know how to deal with these sort of things. Give the woman some time, let her think things in her mind, sort her stuff out before dropping up on her again. Better than immediately giving out a superficial "oh, well, good for you". He found that out the hard way.

Mere seconds passed. Probably half a minute or so. The traffic crawled forward for another few inches. He could just about spot the end of the drag at the curve of the horizon.

He took a silent breath. He made a furtive glance towards the cat beside him. She was slanted on his door, her tail drooping just behind her seat. Her ears stayed still, unlike the erratic twitches he'd see on younger ones. She seemed calm on the outside, her red eyes staring out into particularly nothing.

He knew better. He had heard her voice. Heard the slight distinction between truth and a white lie. He may be right, he may be wrong but asking would never hurt. Give somebody a hand, woman or not. Give them a beacon of light in their darkened confines, be it hopeful or not. That's what his mother would say.

He drew another silent breath. Then he spoke.

"You know, you could tell me what's on your mind." He shrugged, "I don't mind at all, if you care."

She turned to look, her face ever so immaculately plain and expressionless.

"Hey, I may look like a stranger on a taxi but take it from me: I'm a great listener, if I may say so myself." He put an arm up, "You can tell me your problems. Maybe I can give you a piece of my mind. A suggestion, an old geezer's advice. Maybe it'll be helpful, maybe it won't. But if you need a third ear, you've got yourself one here for the next hour. Free of charge, off the bill,"

"Wha'dya think?"

And he went overboard.

What the hell, Maurice, he lamaneted himself.

It was a friendly gesture. A offer of a listener. A partner for one's frustration. Something sensitive for the other person. It was all fine and dandy until he made it sound like an offer.

"Free of charge, off the bill," and "wha'dya think". Really Maurice? Really? You should've said "all ears and attention for the low, low price of five ninety-nine! Got a problem? Flush it down the drain of this bottomless abyss of a daft brain!"

Genius, Maurice. This is why you're a damn taxi driver. This is why-

"You're right," she said, "I shouldn't bottle up."

-you're a damn taxi driver, Maurice. You're a damn- what?

He snapped back from his remorseful regrets and back to reality. He glanced to his side, his palms gripping hard on his wheel.

Her ruby-like pupils stayed on the road, transfixed onto the other cars. Her eyes were on a hatchback but he knew better. They say eyes are windows to one's soul. He agreed with the first half. They were windows, but they showed something else.

He took a look into her windows. They spoke of a distant, foreign language easy to understand yet hard to comprehend. The red twirled and swirled within their confines. They seek not of escape, but rather redemption. Of what kind, he couldn't've known. It was their job, not his.

Then the cat spoke, "My co-workers. They've a problem. With me."

Here we go, he thought.

"What kind," he asked, "surely, it isn't something serious."

She looked in an empty distance for a spell. The red swirled more. They twirled and stirred themselves in a slow, steady circular motion.

"It's fine. This thing they want," she said, "it's not serious. But still."

Silence for a moment.

"They want a stand. From me. An opinion. A political one. A thought of mine,"

"I gave none. It's all I thought. Told them all. I thought of nothing. It's politics. I report them. I follow them. But I don't take stands,"

"That was all. I told them that. They left me alone. It's done. Then I thought of something,"

"Why didn't I? I saw many things. Never gave an opinion. Not a single one. Then I thought. Should I? Am I supposed to? I'm a news reporter. I report only news. But are times changing? Are opinions mandatory now?"

She looked outside, the red still stirring in her eyes, "The young ones have it. Should I do too?"

She stared back at the dull sedan but she didn't see it. Her eyes were staring but they weren't looking. They were someplace else. Either deep in her mind or faraway someplace else.

He heard her words and the first thing he thought was 'she wasn't a talker'. Too many fullstops. Short, quick sentences that hits the point bullseye but still short, nevertheless. She didn't seem rushed to make her statement. Even if she didn't imply to, her words did.

His next thought wasn't quite as simple. He kept his silence to himself, this time around. He needed some time to think. Some time to digest and articulate.

He never thought that would be the case. He'd expected office rivalries, or love interests, or even a dirty scandal. The cat's issue was genuine. Maybe even childlike, to some extent.

I never gave an opinion. Never took a stand. Now the kids are doing it. Should I do it too? Is this what news report means now? Taking a stand and reporting the news as it is?

Alright Maurice, he thought to himself. Your turn.

"Do you know how a seesaw works?"

She glanced towards him. Her poker face remained. Her eyes didn't. They were considerably wider. He could spot a splotch of confusion within.

He smiled, continued, "A seesaw is a pivot, at least that's what the textbooks say, or what I think it says. They have things like weight and load and effort on either side and all the other science things the science men make up these days. Anyway, sitting right in the middle over there is the pivot. The whole things making the seesaw work,"

"Now let's name the seesaw "Politics". It's weird but let's all get odd for a while, eh? Not a lot of chances for us old folks these days, no offense. The seesaw moves around all the time. This side goes up, this side goes down, vice versa. Sometimes things balance, most of the time it rocks around like it couldn't make up its damn mind. But guess what stays in the middle? That's right, the pivot,"

"Miss, or ma'am, if you are either, you're the pivot. You bolt the thing onto a balance so that the seesaw remains a seesaw. Opinions, stands, thoughts, you take none of those. Only the facts and statements. Those you report, stainless. I mean, imagine a seesaw without a pivot. It's just a plank. Everything goes stale. No up, no down, no progress. With a good bolt and some springs, the seesaw rocks up and around and around and finally, we have that much needed equilibrium. We progress as humans, furries and different species, reaching that equality they always talk about on the telly,"

"Your co-workers probably had the other intention. Maybe they were checking. Maybe they needed an anchor. Maybe when they go too far to that one side of the seesaw they look back and have you there to drag em' back to where they belong,"

"You're the balance, miss, or ma'am. You've been in the business for quite a while, so far this geezer remembers. Maybe you looked the other way. Maybe it's the kids that went too far on one side. Give them time, let them get their kicks before coming back to square one. You're their point of return. You gotta go back to basics at some point, right? At least when the kids finally realise they'll have an anchor to latch on to, eh? A reliable, solid 'anchor'woman, if you catch my drift."

He said his words paced and steady, with caution in every sentence and speak. He did well and he thought so himself. Maybe it is. Maybe it's not. Either way, he thought it was a job well done.

But it meant nothing if the results spoke otherwise.

His sight drifted to the corner of his eyes. She had her head against the seat, her purse still in her hand, her eyes transfixed onto the cars in front. Her face was just as expressionless as it was from before, like nothing would ever faze her or knock her off balance.

Then she spoke, "It's ma'am."

The driver stayed there, gripping onto his wheel before catching on shortly. "Ah, my bad."

She gave an understanding nod. He waiting for something else after that. Nothing came. Silence arrived, followed by more silence.

So nothing, huh, he thought to himself. It's alright, Maurice. She's probably dealing it with herself right now. You helped her enough.

He thought of other things to say. Better to keep the relations warm than to ice it back up. He thought of topics. General things of interest. Then he remembered the "ma'am".

"You have kids ma'am?"

She turned towards him, empty faced.

"I've got two," he said, "big girl and slightly bigger boy. One's five and the other's nine. Best thing that has ever happened to this old geezer."

She stared for a second before turning back to the road.

"Boy," she said, "Just one. High school."

"Ah, a big-big boy? He's doing well on his grades?"

"Decent," she answered.

He nodded in agreement. Went back to his mind, into his chest-full of ice breaking topics before the cat spoke again.

"Thank you," the crisp, clear voice said.

His mind froze for a second. He turned to her. She was looking towards him, the red in her eyes brighter than before.

"I needed that," she said, "I can see it now. Thank you."

He stared. He heard the words. Then he beamed.

"All in a day's work," he said.

He turned back onto the road. Took a deep breath. He thought of more topics, then he decided not to. Silence seemed like their best friend now. A much needed transition, in fact.

The man couldn't help himself. His grin spread ear-to-ear, glowing pride radiating off his wrinkling face.

You did it again, Maurice. You did it again.


	9. Lesson One

Good evening.

Shiro rewinded the clock. He rewinded the tape again and again, just to be sure that he was wrong, that it was a fluke of his senses and he hadn't really said that.

And time and time again, he was proven right.

Good evening.

He'd actually said it.

You could've said more, he thought to himself.

And just in case I don't see you today, good morning, good afternoon and good night!

He dug his snout deep into his paws. He couldn't believe it. For the life of him, he couldn't believe it. He said it like it was an insult to the 'a' in 'a.m.'

Good evening.

"Hey, hey." Krin sat just beside Shiro, being the most courteous as she could possibly be, "it's a mistake everyone makes. It's fine, you know..."

True, what Krin said was. It's like calling your teacher 'Mom', or saying "You too" to a cashier or a movie attendent. It's a common mistake. A very embarrassing, borderline disturbing common mistake to make. One that would haunt that one dark corner of your memories and dreams and never come out till the worst of times.

Shiro wanted to walk home at that very instant. Just drop his bag, grab his phone and make a beeline for it. Just run away from it all. They say first impressions are important and the o' wise Shiro made himself to be a jumpy, musical stoner.

Brilliant.

He brushed his face against his fingers. They slid down his thin, irregular fur, messing it as his hand swept down to his legs, dropping it to his thighs.

Krin had an indecisive look to her face. Shiro could read it in an instant. The face had an air of unsureness to it, like a novice mechanic figuring out what went wrong to a sputtering sedan. It was a face Shiro knew all too well. She was thinking of a question. An icebreaking question. The one Excalibur to a usually unsalvageable social hiccup. Everyone knows what it does and why it's done and nobody dares to point it out because they, too hope for that one knight brave enough defeat the awkward dragon ruining an otherwise decent moment.

A simple yet effective spell.

The trick for the other guy is to stay silent, once you notice it. Let the saviour sieve through the choices and possibilities for questions. Give him or her space and time to bring up the best (and most distracting) of questions so that the insufferable silence would be over. Just sit down, don't make eye contact and keep yourself occupied, whether you're doing something or not.

Shiro's earbuds were already in its perfect position, every sound and note and lyric travelled exceptionally well into his eardrums but he went and adjust it anyway. Anything to make him seem oblivious to Krin's presence. He'd seen people do it and they seemed to work just fine. He'd never been in a similar situation himself before but the results implied that his observations are spot-on. It worked like a charm.

Krin stayed silent for a while, deep in her thoughts, filtering through her options and choices. Then she opened her mouth. Then she closed it again. She tapped on her skull-like snout, audible clicks sounding off the echoing station before showing her jaws again.

"What were you listening to anyway," she asked.

Good job, Krin, Shiro thought.

Van Halen's Jump finished long time ago. The shuffling playlist went through about two or three tracks already. A new song came up. It wasn't an oldy but rather a newer one. This one had a rathercatchy beat to it. Electrical strums with pulses of scrappy noises to it. The main focus seemed to be the music itself because the vocals were near painful.

Shiro didn't mind that though. The vocals were probablywhat they were for a reason. The voice suited the music like a bandage on a broken face. They aren't necessarily beautiful but hey, if it work, it works.

Shiro picked one bud from his right and handed it to Krin. She picked it up and pressed it against her head.

Where's her ears anyway, Shiro thought.

"Three six nine, girls wanna drink wine," the vocals yawned, "tell the man not to waste your time. If the man broke, the man he a joke so you gotta get loose with the Henny and the Coke."

Shiro heard it fairly recently. He had a surprise dinner with his mother. She waited for him at the train station and brought him somewhere fancy. Good pasta, that place had. The song came up on the radio on their way back. His mother tuned to another station after that but not before Shiro could catch that one lyric that would lead him to the source.

"Chicka fake ID," the vocals sang.

Shiro liked the song. It wasn't his favourite, nor was it an inclusion he thought was smart and regretted later but felt obligated to keep it but a song he genuinely liked. It was the kind where it just clicks in place and you just jam to it every once in a while.

Shiro glanced towards Krin. She sat still and unmoving like the song had no effect on her at all. But it did. It seemed to concentrate it's spellbinding powers and coagulated them all into her foot.

Within the brown, soled shoes she tapped quite rhythmically, almost in sync with the tune itself. No, wait, it's perfectly in sync. Like it was the music itself. Like her foot was the main beat, the foundation to everything that came after in the song. It beated to a perfect candence. It seemed like the song was playing to her foot, for that matter.

People wouldn't usually take notice to things like this. It was the kind of thing that people would look with amusement and forget it once it leaves the very corners of their eyes. Not Shiro. He had times where he'd seen people tapping things to whatever was blaring in their headphones or earbuds. They were usually irregular, unfashoined and just for fun.

Not Krin, though. A borderline professional beat, she tapped to. Like she was trained for it. Born with the gift of perfectly syncing to anything that plays into her ears. It seemed casual at first glance till you put years worth of experience in musical appreciation on it and find out the mastery behind the simple action.

She listened to it for a while. Then she handed it back, her foot staying stagnant, content in her expression. "That was good. Where did you find it?"

Shiro slotted it back to his ears. He contemplated whether to ask of her about the foot and everything else. It was a fast and definite no, courtesy of his sensibility and reason. Would be a weird thing to ask that would probably need another question to salvage. "Radio," he answered.

"Fake ID," Krin guessed, "right?"

Shiro nodded. Anyone would've guessed it. It was repeated in the chorus like gospel, as if the artist was afraid that one mention wasn't enough to sell the name and that she had to put it on repeat twenty times to make sure listeners got the message.

Krin nodded back. She went back to herself. Shiro did what he did best. It fell silent. The ambient hum came with it. The chill of the air multiplied in itself tenfold along with the silence.

Then the train came. It came in a shrieking halt, the wheels grinding against the rails in sparking stop as it flew through the track, slowing from a pace to a stop. The silvery, cylindrical body gleamed under the glow of the lights as it slid to a stall. The doors awaited patiently before sliding themselves open along with the glass panes. A visible, icy haze departed from the cabin along with an announcement.

"Train departing Station K," the announcer told, "arriving Station J."

Neither of them got up. It wasn't theirs. They only watched as the few boarders rode away deep into the other side of the tunnel. The glinting silver streaked past into the darkness, leaving an echoing screech as it grinded its way into a smooth sprint deep into the tunnel.

"So," Krin popped up from beside, "you like music a lot?"

Her voice trailed off with the departing train. Shiro caught the words. He nodded.

"Well, you've got any favourite genre?"

Shiro thought for a second. He shrugged, "Anything's good."

"I see."

Silence for a moment.

"Train should be here momentarily."

Shiro nodded.

"Done all your work?"

"Gave none."

"I see."

The silence seeped back into the station. It rung in great volumes, sounding off in unheard waves and inaudible echoes. It treaded and tramped across them both, frolicking in its ever conscious presence.

Then Krin had it. She spun around, threw her arm up and gave the silence the roundhouse slap it rightfully deserved.

Her fingers were fidgeting with hesitation. Doubt was present in her voice, uncertainty within. She mouth stayed clamped shut. Shiro couldn't see her eyes but the emotions were clear everywhere else. A heated debate, she had in her mind. Clashing were her courage and her reluctance. The battle went on for a brief moment before a victor emerged.

Krin drew a long breath. A very clear one at that. Shiro spoke nothing of it. He merely waited and listened. Then he waited no more.

"Remember the train ride from yesterday?"

Shiro didn't answer. He just nodded.

"The whole, you know," she squirmed on her seat, "help you talk and make friends thing?" Her voice dropped to a squeak on the last sentence. She ducked to the side, looking away as she awaited a response. It came quick and definite.

"Yes."

Krin stayed for a second. She turned back, her chest rising and falling in silence. Composure seemed to seep into her posture. She was deep in thought, a close focus into something. Then she dropped her poise and spoke aloud.

"You need to speak more."

Shiro commented nothing. He merely listened. He plucked out his earphones as she spoke. Dropped it into the opening in his collar. Something his mother said years ago when he first got them. Something about "showing manners" and "putting them away" when "someone's talking". The memory didn't remain. The habit did, though.

"That's certainly something you could improve on," said Krin, "your responses are, well, too one dimensioned. Sure, it does answer questions but you have to make conversations with, you know, detail. Flesh out the answers and give a little insight. You're straightforward, that's a unique side to you, yes but information is king, people say."

Detail, insight, information. Words that swiveled within Shiro's head.

"Why don't we try it again?"

Shiro thought about it. Nodded his head.

Krin beamed with her jaws. She cleared her throat, cleared her voice and sat up and straight. It seemed to spellbind Shiro, for he, too rose from his slacked posture.

"So," she asked, superficiality present in her tone, "you really like music, don't you?"

Okay Shiro, he thought to himself, detail, information, insight, go.

He took a deep breath.

"It all started. Long time ago. When I was a baby. We had a radio. It was-"

"No no no," Krin interrupted, "no need to be so informational. Just the surface level would do. Minor details, you know? Just like a summary, if you could catch my drift."

Shiro thought about it. Nodded. He restarted his speech. Chopped and cut and sliced extra, uneeded backstory from the talk and went straight to the point.

"Yes, I do," he spoke, his voice as deep as a groan.

Shiro looked at Krin. He anticipated an answer. Anticipated a response. How did he do? How did it go?

Krin, however, stayed silent. She sat there, watching Shiro unblinkingly oblivious to the issue. Shiro winded the clock back a second prior. Revised his words. Took him a while to realise.

More, Shiro thought.

"I like them," he continued, "a lot. I listen to them. Many times a day."

Shiro looked back to Krin's expression. It was the one he'd been looking for. Content and pleased. "See, it isn't hard, was it?"

Shiro was going to nod before switching tracks, "Yes," he spoke. It was quite a while before another, "it was."

"What kind of genre you like," she asked.

Alright, Shiro thought, you can do this.

"I don't care," he said, "I listen to anything." He thought some more and added, "Mostly old songs. They're great."

"Really," Krin asked, "what kind?"

What kind, Shiro thought, easy.

"Garage rock," he said, "I like them. Very much."

Krin had curiousity written all over her face. "Garage… rock?"

Shiro's heart beated a supressed "glad you asked".

"It's like rock. But cheaper. No expensive things. Just the guitar. And drums. Bad vocals but good. For the song. For the theme."

"You mean it like some homemade songs?"

"No," Shiro corrected her, "it's like rock. But in a garage. With your own instruments."

"Ah," Krin said, "that figures. I like instrumentals myself, though. You know, the usual pianos and chellos and orchestras. No lyrics, just the sweet music. Not exactly homemade but you can play it by yourself."

"I listen to them too," he spoke, "sometimes."

"Oh my, you have a favourite?"

Shiro thought for a second, "Robin Return."

Krin couldn't help but giggle, "It's Robin's Return with an 's'. Mine's Moonlight Sonata. It's also my favourite. Really puts me in mood to do things."

Shiro found himself curious. If his memory served well, it was those kinds of music played in funerals and grey-filtered scenes in soap operas. He didn't ask any further. Everyone had their taste. Be it late, old or plain weird. Krin fell somewhere between two of those categories.

"What about you," Krin asked, "you got a favourite?"

Shiro didn't really put much thought into it. He didn't need to anyway. The music sounded in his ears as soon as the word "favourite" came up like a record player in his mind. Like a hammer to a trigger.

"Mister Blue Sky," he blurted.

"Oh, well, I guess I can't really say I heard of it before."

No surprise there. In fact, Shiro would've been elated to know if she did. It was an old song and a reletively unknown one. Decade's worth of gap between the song's initial release and it's highly experimental tonality forbade its rise to the charts. The public just wasn't ready for it. It only found audience when a clueless child inadvertently stumbled upon the vague classic when it truly found its first cult following.

"It's an old song," he said, "Rock. Not Garage. Pop. Pop rock."

"Ah," she exclaimed, "so you like rock in general?"

He half opened his mouth, then he closed it. Thought of it for a second. "Yes," he said, "guess I do."

She giggled, rested an elbow over her thighs and planted her hand on her palm. Twirled a pointing finger towards Shiro, "So you do have a favourite genre."

He half opened his mouth again, then he closed it once more. Thought about it for another second. "Yes," he said, word to word, "guess I do."

"Yes," she spoke with a grin, "you really do-"

Another screech cut her off as abruptly as she began. It cried aloud from the other tunnel, blasting through in rising echoes. The screamed and protested wildly against the tracks below their metal wheels. Shiro could almost see the sparks firing off the rails as the cylindrical silver body streak past them in a slowing pace.

The train paused for a moment after its initial halt. It followed action to action from the last train moments before. The doors opened, followed by the obidient glass panes, accompanied by the icy fog trailing out from the cars.

Krin looked at Shiro. He didn't understand at first. Then he caught her drift.

"Let's?"

His voice came out a little wobbly. 'Let's' wasn't a word he commonly refer to. It was usually said by someone else and nine out of ten times it wasn't for him.

This time he was the speaker. And he had a follower with him, tagging along with his side as they made their way into the chilly cabin. It was no different from the station outside. Only smaller. And colder. Very much so.

Then everything worked themselves in reverse. The fog evaporated into the air. The glass panes slid themselves back to place, the doors following moments after.

The hum of the air-conditioning was considerably louder, but it was miniscule compared to the dead silence in the train. Nobody passes through the stations before often. Crowds only came in between. All there was were a suited or uniformed men or women, slumped in their seats, catching up with their slumber.

Then Krin spoke.

"That wasn't so bad," she said, "was it?"

Shiro thought for a second. He fiddled with the earbuds in his collar. Played with them between his claws like little white ballet dancers. Then he had his answer.

"Yes," he answered, "it was great."

"Train departing Station K. Arriving Station L."


	10. Spaghetti Spells (Lesson Two)

Friday is a vague definitive for divine misery for most students. Like a temporary purgatory that lasts for the first few hours of your day as you twist the spike-covered handle of Thursday's door and open up Friday's door whose doorknob is not only doused in boiling erosive acid but is too lush thick with poison ivy and roses that bear no flower but endless streams of stems that would bite your fragile skin and only let go given that you're willing to sacrifice a finger or two.

Yet, the door is also desirable. No matter the pain or torture or suffering for wanting to open the door, the sight beyond tempts even the most hard-willed of pupils. An endless field of sunny grace and peaceful silence, accompanied by the hills of soft, floral and the lucid blue sky, with cute, fluffy puppies and kittens frolicking among the flowers, all while the silence whisper the benevolent word,

Saaatuuurdaaayyy

So Shiro managed to get through Friday, with the artery-clogging anticipation of laying down on his couch all-day with the music at full blast on his speakers without a care nor a worry for the world. Never mind the oncoming beauty that is the mythical 'Sunday', the mere realization of his materializing fantasies was enough to set him on edge for the rest of the school day.

He retained his poker face. He managed to keep the cool he had popped three veins to preserve and retain focus for lessons. Alas, his guard was broken when he heaved an audible and ungainly sigh as soon as the clock struck two.

Krin chimed in, a hint of amusement in her tone, "Relieved for the weekends?"

His relief could be excused. Though the school does end a good three hours earlier in Friday, the thought only add up to the enthusiasm of hearing the salvation of the end-of-school bell. With no other time to shift the excitement away, the sigh was inevitable. Like a burp after a long drag and a big gulp of cola. Like the unavoidable trip to the loo after a spicy meal.

Shiro stared at first, the realization of his gruffly sigh slowly dawning upon him before giving a timid nod as he looked away in embarrassment.

Krin threw her sling bag over her shoulders, a grin spread across her bare boned cheeks, "You have any plans?"

Yeah. Strip myself naked, close the curtains, get under the covers and scream with Blink-182.

He shook his head. "No," he said, "not exactly."

They made up the library, double checked for next week and shut down everything before locking the doors on the way out. Shiro peered inside for insurance. The overdue reserved book still sat on the counter, lonely and unaccompanied for the weekends.

The hallway wasn't empty yet. Students lingered about, either waiting for friends or aren't that eager to hit the hay. They took the less popular exit as per yesterday and took the road to the station.

Krin asked on the way, "Did you get any assignments? I heard the teachers are brutal on the academics."

"Lots," Krin asked on the way, "especially Maths."

"They are catching up on the syllabus out of pride. No use being the top school if you can't top the syllabus themselves."

Shiro nodded.

"I've got my share. At least three on average per subject."

Shiro glanced towards Krin. "Three?"

She glanced back, "It's nothing. I'll handle them just fine. I've got a good few done back at the library too, if I might add."

"What's your class?"

Krin answered and Shiro took no time to understand.

"You're a top class."

Krin looked to the side, "Oh, you're flattering. It's quite unlike the other classes. The competition, the stress, the rivalry. Nobody would even dare to be friendly. It's either do or humiliation. I much rather be in another class, if you ask me."

"What's your class, anyway," Krin asked.

Shiro answered. Krin nodded.

"You getting by good?"

It's not even three weeks and I'm already well prepared and equipped to fail my Algebra. I've lynched my Biology and very much euthanized my Physics. I think my Chemistry is neck deep in sulphuric acid.

"Yes," he lied through his teeth.

"Do you need help with anything?"

Shiro thought about it. He didn't mind failing his things. He figured he'll make it in some other jobs. The police, the military, the fire department or any other jobs that require more brawn than brains. But does he really need to get his Maths above the passing grade? Is trigonometry required to rescue a maiden from a burning four story or logarithms to arrest a common criminal?

Then Krin stopped dead in her tracks before Shiro could finish his train of thoughts.

"Are you hungry?"

As if by pure magic, a pang of squeamish, nibbling beasts started gnawing onto Shiro's abdomen. They scuttled about in his intestines, tickling and brushing against every veil and pore in his stomach. All he had for break was a slab of tuna sandwich 'fresh' from Olson behind his dormitory (a special recommendation by Doug himself). It was decent but far from fulfilling.

"Yes."

Krin drew a thumb across the T-junction towards an avenue on the other side of the road. There were similarly uniformed folks milling about, along with kids from neighboring academies and nine-to-fivers looking for a quick break.

"I know a place. They serve great pasta there. You want to go?"

Shiro would be home by then, playing his games or listening to his music while chewing on some dry, flaking crackers or some instant noodles, 'fresh' from Olson, yet again. He didn't mind the flavor or the quality. No need for exuberant spices or fancy ingredients. If it quenches his stomach growls, it's enough.

But it's pasta.

Shiro breathed in.

Yes."

-

Since the dawn of humanity, men have strived and reached and broke many realms in the universe of culinary. Ever since men realized that dripping bee syrup into hot water bottomed with leaves and drinking it soothes the head and calms the heart, we have went to great lengths and made many milestones just to expand our horizons, discover more recipes and create more appetizing combinations of food.

But men are still men. Men are different. Everyone is different. It is inevitable that while a majority of the world break boundaries and delve deep into culinary, there still lay people, dotted all across the world who would do just enough with fermented dairy on lightly burnt bread, sometimes dousing some sugar for a little spice if they ever feel so.

Those men care not for bizarre ingredients and eccentric combinations. All they want is a simple dollop of butter on toast, or crackers and milk, or cookies and cream.

Shiro is one of those folks. One of those folks who would do just fine with simplicity. He wanted nothing more and couldn't've asked for anything less.

Pasta was the most extreme he'd ever went. He had to simmer the sticks into boiling water, then open a can of tomato sauce and mix the pasta and sauce together. Sometimes that isn't even enough. Then you get things like mushrooms and cheese and spices with names sounding less like herbs but more of magic spells. It's hard work, but the result was worth it. And that was the furthest he'd ever went on the ever expanding universe of culinary arts.

So imagine his surprise when he found out that there's a whole new world where mixing pasta and seafood is an actual, legal act and not some sinful heresy.

"Boltongernese"? The hell is "Liegureon Pesto"? "Cacio e" what? What do you mean "Faggotoli"? "Rigato"-hell is this?

The little blurbs under the names didn't help either.

Who the hell thought pasta and pistachio was a good idea? Why is the spaghetti green? What does the Caribbean have to do with Italian noodles?

Shiro was in a dilemma. He was thrown in a foreign world where people ate with more than two types of silverware; where the tables was are clothed; where vases of flowers sat in the middle of the table and people wiped with napkins instead of tissues. He was pretty sure that water don't sparkle and wasn't supposed to cost a value meal's worth at the local burger stand.

Shiro took a gamble. He scrambled his finger across the menu and pointed at the big bold letters that seemed like the chef's recommendation.

"Sorry, Sir. That's the name of our restaurant."

Sorry, I don't exactly speak in squiggles either. Who in the right mind approved cursive on menus?

The waiter stood patiently, his pen hovering over his notepad, waiting for Shiro's order. He'd already took Krin's, where she gazed across her menu, chanted some magic spells and jotted them down onto the notepad.

Yes, can I just get pasta? I don't really need "Parmesanan" in my "Manarina" sauce, really.

"Do you need help, Shiro?"

Shiro looked up from the menu, panic stricken. Krin was staring at him from the other side of the table. She seemed curious, questioned over why Shiro hadn't recited his share of abracadabras for food.

Shiro took another gamble. He pointed at another set of cursive, fancy written words.

"That's our address, Sir...”

I'm sorry, I guess I forgot where your restaurant's at. It's not like I'm sitting in the damn place right now, eh? Who the hell writes their address on their damn menu?

"Oh," was all Shiro could express.

"Here, I'll help you out."

Krin extended a hand, offering her aid. Shiro passed her the menu, glad and relieved that there's someone around here that could understand moon runes.

She took a furtive glance across the laminated sheets of paper. Flipped the pages across in skillful flicks, as if she was accustomed to them. Characters Shiro found unreadable passed her by like they were a common interest. She checked each page with ease before stopping on one particular page. She looked back up to Shiro.

"Would you care for some cream spaghetti?"

Cream? Whipping cream? Cream on spaghetti? Slow down there, cap'n. It's only half a minute ago when this guy discovered shrimps and macaroni.

Shiro shrugged.

"Are you okay with mushroom?"

Shiro nodded at that.

Krin closed the menu and handed two things to the waiter. First was the menu. Second was a ritualistic chant with the mythical word "carbonara" in the middle and a "thank you" at the end. Shiro braced for the furniture to start levitating. They didn't.

The waiter gave a bow and retreated away into the stock, busy background of grown-up chatter and clanging silverware. He left the two alone in their little bubble of privacy.

Shiro took a sweeping glance across the table. Their glasses were watered. The flower in the middle was actually real, he noticed. Its fading, red petals barely clung onto its last string of life, feeding off whatever nutrient was left in that vase.

He scanned around the place. Most of the tables were occupied. Some full, some with lonely occupants. There were students here and there but the majority belonged to grown-ups in suits and dresses. The place didn't have the look or a reputation to warrant a full house. Every angle he looked had at least one vacant table. The staff was just enough. No-one was overworked and everyone had something to do.

He'd seen enough. It was a decent place. Shiro had been to places both better and worse. It wouldn't be a place he'd return in the foreseeable future but time will tell. It looked like the sort of place you would bring someone for a quick meeting to discuss some business over. Shiro saw no prospect of that ever happening, considering his current social circle. It became another discover in his mental map, nothing more than a point of interest for him.

His eyes drifted back to the table where he noticed Krin staring at him. Then he noticed she wasn't. Then he didn't know for sure. Krin hadn't got any eyes, at least from Shiro's point of view. He knew very well that she isn't blind but beneath that smooth hair parted across her bony, skull-like head, there wasn't a single clue that hinted the presence of an actual pair of eyes within.

He may not have seen eyes, but her gaze did shot up a thought in Shiro's head.

Table topic.

That one vile, creeping creature seeping into every friendly meetups, dinner dates and even family occasions. That one frightening monstrosity ever rampaging in deafening silence. A table topic.

A table topic is like a game of conversational badminton. The server must be skillful and on the point. The ball is the social situation and the racquet is the topic. The racquet must swing in a way that it not only hits the mark of relativity in current events, the momentum must also be smooth and clear, where the other side can register where the ball would go and how they would go about hitting it back. The best serves not only has relativity nailed, it too must be an easy and gratifying ball to hit - a universal topic that any answer can fit.

Yet, the serve isn't one sided. The server must also be in mind of the receiver.

The server has to be knowledgeable in the receiver's current condition. Whether they can rebound the ball back into the court with ease or difficulty, they must serve in a way that they could also predict the receiver's rebound and reach for the ball with breeze. If the server misses the mark, or cast the net too far, they would be met with the oh, so dreadful "ah" or "oh" or "okay" and subsequently forced to lower their pitiful heads, cross the court and pick up the ball to try again.

The best server knows their receivers interest and holds it to their top priority. The ball must land bullseye onto the receiver's racquet without the receiver even noticing. The receiver only needs to stand still in their comfort zone, holding their racquets and do nothing while the server hits the spot again and again, leaving all the work to themselves while the receiver only needs to stand still and enjoy the game, oblivious to the disproportionate work being done.

It may be unfair at first glance but it's clear who reaps the benefits. The server gets the best impression while the receiver stays impressed.

It's not only a simple chat or talk about the weather. It is a test of one's social skills. A psychological assessment of how far can you carry that game of talks and speeches, how far can you keep that bubble intact as the looming, frothing creature looms behind, waiting to beset silent chaos and quiet rage as soon as the awkward pause shows up and ruin the entire game like a speed bump in a drag race.

It was a stressful endeavor. The creature only persists in its destruction with each passing moment until the ball gets served. Otherwise, only time would tell whether the other party would pick up their racquet and walk away in an unsalvageable ruin, with days of avoiding eye contact and painful "hi"s and "hello"s to follow.

Shiro's mind ran quicker than a caffeinated gerbil on an oiled wheel. He was at the other end of the tipping scale already. They've only met for a day and a half. The confession on the train was another weight to the already slippery slope of disadvantage. There was an unspoken pact to don't bring it up, acknowledged by both parties.

So what else? What else is there? What the hell else is there to bring up? What can there be to possibly-

"Let me see your assignments."

bring up at a time like this- huh?

Earth to Shiro made contact and his empty mind was on an arching crash course back to reality. His mind snapped back from panic to realization to confusion. All in a split of a split second.

Krin leaned on her side of her table, her stationery out beside her arm, a pencil in her palm, armed and ready to write.

"It's obvious. You needed help with your assignments."

Shiro starred in a daze, watching the ball making its aerial journey towards his side of the court, shifting his racquet in awkward poses that would make a yoga practitioner blush.

"You didn't realize? You were staring into traffic for a while when I asked you that. And since you didn't have plans for tomorrow nor today, this seems to be the best time to help you out. I'd only guide you, though. You have to do it yourself."

Her voice sounded not at all condescending. In all genuine honestly, she offered to lend her help and expertise to Shiro in a way where refusal seemed to be out of sheer antagonism.

"Ask for help when you need it. Take it as lesson two, if you will-"

Then self-realization suddenly dawned on Krin that she'd inadvertently asked Shiro out for lunch with none but the intention to pull a red herring on him to do his homework.

She slowly ducked back down from her holier-than-thou image and retreated back to her usual timidity.

"Well, that is if you don't mind…"

Assignment. The Maths assignment. She was trying to help me out on my assignment.

Only now did it truly felt like Krin's gaze. Maybe she had been for the past minute. He couldn't tell.

This girl.

-

Ohmygodohmygodohmygodiactuallydiditohmygodwhathaveyoudone

Krin's mind ran faster than a hyperactive kid with a shopping cart and an empty floor to spare.

Ididitohmygodiaskedhimtoshowmehisassignmentwhatamidoingkrinyouareoutofyourmindrightnowhowdidyouthinkthiswasagoodideamaybehedidntwanttoandnowhethinksyoureabusybodyohmygodwhathaveyoudone

Nothing seemed to form a word, much less a sentence out of her mouth.

She would've ducked under the table is she wanted to. Shrink herself and go under the tablecloth and stay there until they're all old and wrinkly and have Alzheimer's and forget whatever had unfolded during the prior minute.

She did her best to hide herself. It only looked as if she was arching her back. She dared not look at Shiro in the eye. Dared not even speak another word. Dared not even-

ohmygodheopenedhismouthhesgoingtosaysomething

She braced for it. Braced for whatever it is. She knows nothing, and didn't want to know what is going to come out of Shiro's mouth.

hereitcomeshereitcomesanditsallmyfaulthesgoingtolookatmefunnyandleavemetobe

ohmygodohmygodohmygo

"You're assertive today."

ohmygodohmygodohmy

wha-

Krin could only stare as Shiro reached down to his flap over briefcase and pulled out his books and his pens.

"I lied," he said, his voice deeper than an ocean's trench, monotonous as a TV's static image. "There's also Chemistry. Biology too."

He laid the books out one by one. All in a single file.

Then, among the silent chatter of the background, Shiro said four words that echoed into her head like a broken megaphone on repeat.

"I need your help."

Krin heard the words. She heard the words as clear as day. Clearer than the bright, lucid sky where the clouds go home to rest and the sun shines in bright, blinding rays.

Then she said her own share of words she'd never be able to live with a few hours later when she replayed the scene in her head.

"Can you say it again?"

Deeper than the space above and as monotonous as a drywall, he spoke again.

"I need your help."

You heard it. You heard it, Krin. There's no mistake. There's no mispronunciation or any misheard words. He said it.

He really said it.

"If you don't mind," he added.

He doesn't even mind, Krin. Let me repeat that for you, word to word-

There's no need, thank you.

There's no need to thank me at all.

She felt something welled up within her insides. She might've popped a vein containing it but she cared no more. She could've spun cotton candy out of her mind if she willed it to.

"Sure. Let's start with Biology."


	11. Mr. Nuggle’s Lucky Day

"My, I never knew you were this daring."

The sergal got her reply swiftly in a form of a pillow to her face.

Krin shrieked as respectfully as she dared at her mother, "You told me to be assertive!"

The sergal smirked, pushing the pillow away, "Assertive, as in "ask him if he needs your help", not "ask him out on a date"."

"Mom!" and there went the pillow again.

"Alright, alright, I'll stop," said Krin's mother,” So, how did the boy react?"

Krin shot straight up, clutching her plushy - Mr. Nuggles close to her chest "I don't know?! That's his problem in the first place - he couldn't express himself."

"Ah, I see," the sergal spoke as she raised her arm. Krin saw her hand and lowered her head as her mother slowly soothed her scalp with her paws.

"Still, not even I could pull a stunt like yours," the sergal commented, "who knew I raised such a shameless daughter... a date on just the second day..."

This time there wasn't any pillow. Only the explosive sound of Krin dive bombing onto her mattress, squishing the poor plushy between.

".........." she murmured to the bed sheet.

"There, there," the sergal said as she patted her daughter's head, "I'm sure he'd understand if you clear it up to him."

".........."

"What is it, honey?"

Krin lifted her skull-like face by an inch to the side, "I won't see him till' Monday..."

The sergal said, "Hmm, that's not so bad either. You'll take your time, calm yourself down, think it out for the weekends and by the time you two meet, both of you would've thought it out nice and through."

Krin asked, "How would you know?"

The sergal said, "Believe me, I've spent enough time with your father to know what boys are like."

A pinch of doubt dropped itself into Krin's voice, "Father?"

The sergal smirked, "Your father wasn't always the tough cookie he is. He used to stare at me in classes and serenaded once in front of your grandmother's house. Of course, the other boys copied him the next day but my heart knew its place by then."

Krin repeated herself, still hung with disbelief, "Father?"

"He had to beat them off with sticks, I tell you," the sergal giggled, "anyway, trust your mother when she says it'll be okay by next week. Hm?"

Krin slowly rose up from her place. She soothed her messy hair and nodded to her mother.

"Alright."

The sergal had to level her head as her giant of a daughter got up. No matter how many times she'd seen her girl the sight remains surreal.

Among the pink-walled bedroom, decorated with streamers hanging from wall to wall, laces among the bedframes, plushies along the floor and boy-bands on the walls sat her troubled, hybrid, reptilian daughter - Krin.

Standing 6 foot 8 above the world, her daughter, in reality, was actually a kind, gentle giant who just can't seem to get around her appearance. But that didn't shatter the illusion of seeing a creepy, haired skull standing a good dozen inches above you flashing its unintended, nightmarish grin towards you. Even the sergal herself had moments like that of hers, even after fifteen years of living with the same girl she'd tuck in bed every night.

Krin wasn't the looker. Even as her mother, the sergal was ready to admit it anytime. Even the girl herself knew that. If she wasn't two meters tall, she'd only have her general looks to cope with. No matter how much you sugarcoat it, a skull is still a skull and no sweet talk can persuade anyone from seeing it as anything but a normality.

Krin had been born a hybrid. Both the sergal and her lizard husband's genes biologically joined in a test-tube and was born maternally by the sergal herself. She was a healthy birth. She had a wonderful cry on her first moments with near perfect health. Everything was as ordinary as a parents of a hybrid would've wished for. Everything but one.

Krin's skin grew only up to her nape. Her skull was left bare. White, empty and featureless. No doctor could explain it; it was just one of the many risks of forcefully joining two ends of nature. They were lucky enough to even have a daughter.

The daughter inherited her father's demeanor, only a little less on the facial department. From birth, she'd been a sight to behold. A reptilian skull, chewing and sucking and bawling and doing whatever normal babies do, only a bit bigger and a little less normal.

It wasn't easy for those who laid eyes on her first. The sergal would see her daughter waving and shouting goodbye to her as she stepped her way to her first day at the nursery while other kids saw this devilish figure walking and waving while making sounds with its dislocated jaws, horrified at the notions that they were about to spend their remaining years with a nightmare come-to-life.

Her growth spurt didn't help either. By 10 she outgrew her mother and by 13, her father. With her already creepy-enough skull she became less of a nightmare and more of a Grim Reaper, this time instead of its iconic robe it's a schoolgirl uniform. She became the big, monstrous girl she was ever since. But her inside stayed the same as it'd ever been.

Krin was special. Not in a way that every mother would say to their daughters but in a way that she truly is a special girl. She was self-loving, understanding, confident and capable. She didn't come home crying to her mother about how the kids were laughing and mocking and calling names at her. Instead, she took it all as a playful insults by immature, young children and never thought twice about it.

The sergal couldn't believe it herself either. As a child herself, even without the insults, there were still moments of insecurity that were inevitable for a growing girl. The girl, however, had all the reasons to be and yet, it was as if it was nothing but a gentle breeze to an unmovable mountain. She'd look at the mirror, smile as much as her open jaws would allow and head off to school carrying that same smile.

No matter how much the boys laughed and how much the girls spoke behind her, she'd still come home, the same smile hanging over her ghastly white cheeks, giving her mother a choking hug as she asks what's for lunch.

Then yesterday, the same girl came back as always. Things got different. Not out of hand but it was still drastic - the girl looked panicked. Mortified. At a loss of words.

The sergal thought: ohGodit'shereit'sfinallyherethedambrokethetimehascomeshe'shaditshe'sgoingtoletitallouti'mreadyi'mpreparedyourmotherwouldstaybyyoursideforeverandeverand-

"Mom, there's this boy-"

Even right now, a day after the initial shock, she still couldn't swallow it whole. Her daughter was fine, that was all and well but to come home with boy problems?

Your mother isn't ready yet!

The sergal sat in the corner of her daughter's bed, feeling guilty that maybe, just maybe, she'd expected her daughter to live the bachelorette's life; that her luck with guys were self-evident and that the time will come when it's right. The now had not only swept her off the rug, it rolled her right in and threw her off the cliff.

"So," the sergal asked the same thing again from last night, "how is the boy like?"

Krin asked, "You want to know again?"

The sergal said with a grin, "You did went on a date with him, maybe your image had changed."

Krin replied with a pout, or what it seemed to be, "It wasn't a date. Nothing's changed, for your information."

Then she took a deep breath, sighed from her bare nostrils and spoke anyway, "He's reserved. He usually keeps to himself, like he does it a lot. He's very quiet but he can talk if he wants to. Most of the time, he doesn't. But if he does, he doesn't know how. He lacks experience, since he's always, you know, reserved.

"But he's also observant. He looks around a lot. In the train, at the people in the library, everyone and everywhere. If he's not humming to his music he's- oh, and he always has his earphones on," Krin pinched the air beside her skull, "He puts them on all the time and- right, did I mentioned he likes music?"

The sergal nodded, very much amused to her daughter's current state, "Yes, yes you did. So how's he really like?"

Krin thought hard and said, "Since we've only known for two days, I couldn't guess much but I don't think he's the type to be inside and all. I don't think he's insecure but you know... I can't really say it but he acts in a sort of way that... well... hands in his pockets and all..."

She struggled to find the words; her jaws thinking out loud in silence, stroking Mr. Nuggles. Then something lit up inside of her and she said, "He seems pretty comfortable with himself."

The sergal listened. The sergal thought. Then the sergal compiled her thoughts and made a conclusion.

Nothing to worry about.

She was relived, albeit a little disappointed. A part of her really wanted to have the fabled love talk between her one and only daughter but it wasn't like that. No, not at all. She heard it from her daughter's way of describing the boy.

She sounded more like a passionate doctor to her patient.

"I see," the sergal said in curiosity, "how does he look like.

She could see her daughter remembering hard before speaking, "He's pretty normal looming for a wolf. Short snouted. A little tall too, right about here," she leveled a hand just above her breasts, completely oblivious to the irony of her statement.

She continued, "He has black fur and- oh, his eyes. They're red. Very red. They're like little gems- rubies. Like rubies."

"Ah," the sergal said, tracing her eyes to her daughter's hands, "you mean like Mr. Nuggles?"

At first Krin was blank faced. Then she looked down to her chest, stayed silent for a full second and blew the biggest fit of embarrassment the sergal's ever seen her daughter make.

Clutching between her breasts was Mr. Nuggles - a black furred wolf plushy with rosy red eyes instead of rubies but that didn't do any less.

Unlike the actual boy, Mr. Nuggles had a playful smile and was comically short but that didn't stop Krin from dropping the poor wolf to her thighs in a yelp, where the plushy met a similar fate as moments before.

Krin stared at the plushy for a good second before coming back to her senses. She did things to herself; brushing her T-shirt down, smoothing her hair and checking her nails. Nothing seemed to work against the embarrassment of holding a doppelganger plushy that looked like the boy you've just met a mere day ago between your breasts.

She was also trying to suppress the memories of nights she'd spent clutching the same plushy to sleep, unknown to the fact that a boy that looked just like the plushy was probably snoring away a good unknown miles away.

Krin stayed frenzied for quite some time. The sergal watched her daughter becoming a piece of work before coming back down to her with a question.

"What do you think of him?"

"I- uh, huh?"

"What do you think of the boy?"

"I, well, I, uh-"

There was a moment of silence. Krin stared at the plushy on her thighs.

Then she spoke.

"I guess we're only friends..."

Only friends?

The sergal looked at her daughter's flushed expression, to the plushy wedged between her thighs and back to her daughter again.

Only friends, my ass. You come back here and fix my daughter you damn womanizer-


	12. Car-bone-era

Meanwhile, a few dozen miles away, a sneeze erupted in a little Italian restaurant.

The restaurant was a new start-up dining establishment, wedged in the middle of a somewhat sleepy town. It wasn't a grand location but for the restaurant's capacity, it was all it could've asked for. It was one of those family-oriented, Mama’s-sauces on checkered-red-tablecloth kind of restaurants where they serve big balls of pasta on decent china for affordable prices. A place meant to accommodate six giant families and half a dozen screaming children with a smile on the waiters' faces.

The place was picking up well. It's reputation was building week by week and it became "that place" soon among the locals until a month ago when a famous columnist wrote it up on his website. The place elevated from "that place" to "God, I told you we should've left earlier now we gotta wait a full hour because you just had to do your eyebrows-" in a day's time. Business blew up to the stratosphere. Since then, they were meeting consistent full-houses, endless dishes to fill and piling reservations that see to the week after.

A sudden spark of business is definitely desired but it isn't just a sign with the words "All Is Well". The restaurant is still a tiny child crawling into business that's been unknowingly thrown into the spotlight by an obese man with an appetite and a reputation among other obese men. College-student aged staff with part-time working experience began meeting orders by a dozen with each table along with the chefs, who are barely holding onto their pastas under immense pressure.

So far, considering the work force, they were making through just okay. Barely, if scantily put.

One of the things they hadn't drawn a solution to was the pungent smell. Drops and spills were inevitable yet the solution isn't as easy as mopping the Bolognese sauce off the floor. There's the sticky swamp of a lingering scent to combat. For that, they've propped the problems off their hands with sticks and twigs in the form of half a dozen air fresheners stationed on all corners of the restaurant with the sheer hope that the exotic smell of lavender would excuse the stench of Italian cuisine on the floor.

It worked, for now, but that's because everyone's too busy stuffing their face to complain about it.

One of these sentries were propped on the corner of the restaurant's many gondola-themed booths along the wall. It was doing its usual three-minute interval sprays when one single coagulated and tired drop fell into a lazy arc and landed on a certain canine's nose sitting right below it.

In that instant, a dam broke.

The certain canine's nasal cavity began twitching erratically, rumbling in imperceptible tremors from within. It churned and twisted in teeny, damn near unnoticeable contortions. Pressure built and built and built and built when it was too much to take. It had to let go.

In that sudden split second, the nasal cavity exploded in a messy burst of microscopic dust, mucus and foreign, lavender-scented chemicals.

Then Shiro sneezed.

Shiro's sneeze wasn't just a sneeze. It was more of a chirping yelp that sounded more like an innocent kitty with an itchy nose and much less akin to a red-eyed wolf whose redeemable feature was his suspiciously stuffed, lanky figure.

The sneeze was incomparable to the clinking chaos erupting beyond the booth. Nonetheless, it garnered a glance from the opposite table. The way the guy looked at him was like he tasted a bitter cotton candy. Shiro didn't notice his rudely disappointed stare and ducked under his sleeve. He didn't mind. The whole jacket's going to the dry cleaners anyway.

The napkin dangling between his nose and his sleeve did mind, though.

The hand holding the napkin was orange furred. Tracing the arm would end up spotting a middle aged, tiny but wizened, older-than-she-looks cat lady in a blouse staring with a poker face, untranslatable from every angle and corner. That is, unless you're her canine son. Then you'd instantly know she's giving you the Death Stare and that if you don't take the napkin it's gonna get shoved into your briefcase anyway.

And so Shiro took the napkin from his mother and shoved it into his pocket. He didn't care to tell her that he just needed to rub a mucus-less itch off his nose. The napkin would still end up in his briefcase "for another just-in-case time".

Shiro's mother went back to her laminated menu of assorted Italian goods while Shiro went back to his staring at the window. Shiro himself had one on his side of the table that he cast aside. He couldn't understand a word in it anyway. The only thing he could read on the damn thing were prices and that crab-o'-neera thing he had at lunch. It wasn't half bad.

Then his train of thought pulled the brakes and he went back to the window where late diners milled about, popping their heads and peering inside through slit eyes like gophers.

A suspended animation began whirring statically over the mother-son pair in silence. It hung over them like an invisible bubble; like an unobservable dome covering a wolf and his feline mother that was there but wasn't at the same time. Even among the cluttering madness, the silence had an indisputable presence you can't deny. Noise and sound seem to dim themselves out or rather, an impenetrable circle of deafening silence, hovering around the cacophony like oil and water.

Yet, the silence wasn't a social hiccup. Anyone who took a glance longer than a second knew that wasn't the case. This wasn't the silence of the crickets' concert but the silence of a quiet meal between two people. They didn't talk, not because they had nothing to say. They were silent simply because they could. An accustomed silence. One you'd get between two people who knew everything there was to know between them two.

Except it wasn't quite the case. Rather, Shiro's mother got an offer from her boss she can't refuse and that is to take his reservation for the restaurant, for he couldn't make it. He reserved two spots. Shiro's mother simply went for the top of her contact list for her partner and halfway through his train ride, Shiro's Friday night plans were down the drain by a phone-called dinner date.

Thus, the silence was less of a family dinner and more of an I'm here for work and a Why am I here silence.

Then the silence was broken by the signature wobbly flop of a laminated sheet being put down. The sound was cut short by the crowd but the waiters seemed to pick them up by magic. It was the signature sound of a customer's made mind that rang like an instinctual bell in their minds.

A waitress came dashing through the chaos with a notepad and a pen. She was a rabbit and looked none of it. Her ears drooped, her attire was crumpled, her milky hair tainted and her back was aching. She looked thoroughly abused. Yet, she still hung on a delighted, albeit tired expression as she delivered her best What can I get for you, ma'am? in a Friday night rush hour.

Shiro's mother replied in her perfect, low-but-not-baritone-low newscaster voice that sounded ill-fitting for "Lasagna Delight. No spicy. Honey Lemon. Hot. Salad Side. No dressing."

She delivered every item as if they were the stocks or the voting polls. The rabbit jotted it down aggressively in speed as if she had a grudge against the pages. Shiro watched as she wrote. He understood. He would've thrown in his uniform before lunch break.

His mother could've been a little less straightforward. Maybe a Would you or a Please would soak up some of the fatigue. But Shiro knew it was a pipedream. The day his mother breaks her poker face is the day fish fly under a lime green sky.

Then the rabbit turned to Shiro, the lukewarm smile still hanging on her face, "What about you, Sir?"

For his answer, Shiro took a quick glance at his mother. A furtive nod to her direction. The rabbit turned back to the cat as she continued to drone on.

"Spaghetti. Iced lemon. No sides," again, with her newscaster voice.

The rabbit wrote some more of her notepad before coming back to with, "What would your sauce be?"

Then a freight train hit Shiro's impulsive nerves.

It was a sudden, unexpected impulse. One you get from absolutely nowhere. It was the kind you get when you climb a flight of stairs, or happen to have a sheet of bubble wrap in your hands. It was the kind that makes you climb three steps at a time, or erupt in an explosive popping fiesta on your fingertips.

It was an impulse out of some sheer uncontrollable instinct hidden deep in some dark corner of your mind; the kind that stung Shiro on the back of his head and shot out a word he'd regret moments later.

Shiro's mother had her mouth half open to answer when he blurted out those three, interconnected words

"Car-bone-era."

Ah, the classic.

The ol' slip of the tongue. That one slip that seems harmless on the outside until you step into the speaker's shoes and experience the painful, shameful sting in his heart as his blunder echoes endlessly into the deepest abyss of his memories, waiting to resurface at the worst possible moments.

He'd never face the same girl again, or can he ever walk into a certain place unreluctantly. Or, in this case, ever order Italian cuisine the same way again. That poking prick of a memory will never cease to torture your mind until it wrangles you heart out of pure cringe.

Shiro felt that with every fiber of his being, physical or not. He felt every single last of those pricks, right down to its last, stinging sensation.

There was not one scenario where Shiro walks out of the situation alive. Socially, at least.

Shiro hung his tongue over a second after those three words. Then he realized. Then his insides churned and his mind began working like clockwork, trying its best to turn back time. Then he realized it was futile, and held his breath like it was his last.

To half of his relief, it wasn't.

Fatigue seemed to have taken the better over the rabbit. She merely wrote a little bit more, gave a warm smile and a, "Carbonara, it is." She went back to her job, not at all aware of Shiro's slipped tongue. Maybe she did, after all. He could've sworn she was eyeing her as she wrote.

So that was half a breath given. Half a breath relieved from his burdened lungs. Half a breath's worth of pressure off his weak heart.

The other half wasn't so willing.

Shiro's mother's stern, hands-on-thigh posture was all the more to enhance her sharp, relentless poker face gaze that stabbed into his already wheezing lungs. The gaze had all sorts of questions behind its dark, red veils. Shiro didn't like the looks of it.

Sure enough, the questions went from sight to speech.

"Who taught you that?" Shiro's mother spoke to her son for the first time since the phone call.

Shiro stared back to the gophers with eyes wide shut. He wasn't looking. He was busy keeping his heart in his ribs.

"Shiro," she called.

He wasn't doing such a great job at it.

"Shiro," she called again, this time her voice toned deep into an inescapable baritone that sounded as if it was amplified by an ancient machine weighed down by anvils. Even the guy on the opposite table glanced for a look.

Oh, boy.

Shiro turned to his mother as respectfully slow as he could live to be. He had nowhere to run. Her mind was dead set on the topic. Not even a nuclear warhead could pull her gaze.

"Who taught you that," she asked.

Shiro pulled off his best Whad'dya mean face.

This time she didn't answer. Verbally, at least. She just went back to her Death Stare.

"What?" he asked, one final time.

"Car-bone-era," she answered.

The prick amplified itself by the hundreds. Shiro cringed inside. Either she did it on purpose or snails can swim.

"Menu. On the back," he said.

Shiro's mother flipped the menu on her table, revealing a white, reflecting emptiness shining back.

Damn it.

Shiro's mother changed her gaze from the Death Stare to the Tell Me The Truth or You're In Big Trouble Young Man Stare. He got the message loud and clear through her piercing look.

Then refuge came in the form of their drinks. Luckily, the service here was damn near impeccable after a month's worth of overworking its staff. They've learned to pre-prepare hot items and have at least ten spare glasses of the same drink every time two were ordered at the same time. The drinks came as soon as possible, hoping to distract the customers while the chefs rush to scoop Spaghetti into sauced plates and bowls.

The rabbit was servicing them again. She placed a tall glass of iced lemon tea and clattered a cup of hot, honey lemon by the saucer on the table. She gave them another wane smile and walked away.

Even that, her gaze was unfazed. They remained unchanged as she picked up the cup from the saucer and begun sipping as silently and painfully long as possible.

Shiro waved a mental white flag before heaving the other half of the breath out of his lungs.

"Friend," he said, salvaging his last wall of defense.

"Who?" she questioned.

"School," he answered, hoping to stall as long as possible.

"What's his name?" and the hope crumbled into fading dust.

Shiro's mother took another awfully long and painfully silent sip as she awaited her answer.

Oh, boy.

Shiro wasn't a liar but like everyone else, he had told his fair shares of lies in his life. Like whether or not his father had brought more booze, or that time where he faked his broken wrist for bad fall. He weighed the pros and cons, saw through the consequences and every possible scenario in a split second before arriving to the conclusion that this is one truth not worth the cherry tree.

"Not him," he said, "her."

Regret hit him as hard as the impulsive freight train that started all of this.

Shiro felt the physical pain of having piping hot honey lemon blasting into his trachea as he watched his mother shoot half a cup's worth in a fire hose-like projectile into her bare throat. Her eyes shot wide open for a split second, her eyelids pried open in a burst of energy. Shiro heard her spurting wet, regurgitated pants back into the cup as she wrangles herself back into control.

It took a full, frenzied second before the cup went back on the saucer and Shiro's mother on her usual posture, her eyes back into its usual size, albeit a tad bit too watery and bloodshot for her poker face.

"Do you have homework?"

What?

"What?" Shiro questioned.

Shiro's mother didn't answer his confusion, thus he did for himself.

"No."

"Do you have a business to attend?"

Again.

"No."

"Affairs to order?"

"No."

"Chores to do?"

"No."

"Good."

Then she leaned in closer to Shiro, enough to hear her whisper.

"You're not leaving until you tell me everything."


	13. Never Seen You Smile This Much

Shiro told her everything.

He had to. He had nowhere else to go. He either tells his mother himself or he stops being Shiro and becomes the shriveled corpse in a nearby ditch after his mother sweats answers out of his mouth. Even if he were to walk away, where could he go? Half a dozen miles away from the nearest train station at nine in the night, Shiro ultimately gave in.

So he told her everything.

He left out the big why. That was something he'd never knew why he did. Even in front of his elusive mother who'd never failed to squeeze every last drop of who, what, when, where and why out of him, Shiro couldn't bring himself to tell her what made him drop his name on the electronic notice board in the first place.

"Started in January," he said with his ever so deep voice, "Thought I should do something. Didn't know what to do. Clubs were full. Except for the librarians."

Shiro's mother - an orange domestic cat with a permanent poker face, stared as she listened to Shiro short bursts of sentences. Her face remained emotionless. Like a bear trap for reactions. Neither an eyebrow nor a finger was raised. You would've thought she died sitting, eyes wide.

Give me something, woman. I'm pouring my heart out here.

Shiro heaved some more out of his chest, "Happened last week. Did borrows. Filed books. Fixed pages. Did work. Was okay."

Nothing from the mother.

Fine. At least you're listening. I think.

"Did things myself. A week. Nothing happened. Came back on Thursday. Met her."

And that caught a reaction. A bar from the bear trap for rusted through its core and whiffed away into the wind. Something peeped out of the mother's steel, brick wall of a face. A risen eyelid. It was only half an inch to the left but it was something.

Shiro got amused. He nearly leaked a grunt as he held a smirk back from his parted lips.

"Name's Krin. Was a librarian before. Missed the week I'm in. Got off. Talked some."

The tape replayed in Shiro's head. The book one shelf too high, the scaly fingers latching them down, her voice, too angelic to be true, her skull-like expressions, the talk about her favorite literary genre-

Was it horror? The Black Tower books, was it? Yeah, it probably was.

"Walked home together. Took the same route. Stopped on the way. Asked me for lunch. I agreed. Went for Italian. Menu made no sense. She ordered for me. Was-"

Shiro racked his brains up for a couple more seconds.

What was it, what was it, what was it-

"Crab-or-nara."

Damn it.

"Carbonara," Shiro's mother corrected him.

Shiro let out a sharp sigh under his breath. He gave up. It's like a stubborn stain on the wall you couldn't get off no matter what. He's either going to say it right or he'd never. They say cure is better than prevention. But if the way to cure is to hyperventilate every time you name an Italian cuisine, I'd rather stick around and face the awkward music.

"So it's just lunch," Shiro's mother said as she took a dainty sip from her cup of honey lemon.

Shiro downed a gulp from his glass of iced lemon as a response.

What else would it be, woman?

A faint, ceramic clink chimed among the pair as the feline's hand went back under the table; the cup back on the saucer.

"Tell me her name again."

A dull thud thumped against the wooden table as Shiro set his glass, half its content downed into his eased throat.

"Krin."

Shiro's mother duly nodded. Then she fell quiet.

Silence trailed across for a second before the clanging discord around reared its head back in volume. Both crimson eyes stared into each other in a quiet intensity, as if conducting in their own, private conversation themselves, unbeknownst to their owners. They glistened and reverberated in a shining, soundless, harmonizing rhythm, speaking in exchanges incapable of worded comprehension.

A simultaneity surfaced as the gazes continued. Phantom puppet strings bonded and linked the more they stared, like invisible sorcery unfolding atop the pseudo-gondolas. Their chests rose and fell in cadency, hearts beating as if as one. Shiro watched his mother and she watched her son, but they weren't. They were bare of any relation, both in blood or breed. No patch of skin or drops of fluid from them both shares even a shred of similarity.

And yet-

And yet-

"Here's your order, Sir, Ma'am."

A pretty human boy in a crumpled attire presented their pastas in shiny china. Shiro's 'car-bone-era' had a creamy, white ooze, wafting a brilliant scent of cheese and ham, stinging his senses with its aroma. His mother's lasagna had a golden, crusty, bubbly skin atop its aluminum confines.

Shiro's mother had her rules on dining. She wasn't an attending mother, given her occupation but when she has the chance, she made it dead clear that her child would be raised with strict discipline. Thus, they ate in silence. Their elbows never went above the table. The cutleries always stayed in their hand. And-

"Shiro."

Shiro looked up to his mother. He was done, his back planted against the seat and his half-emptied drink in his. His mother stared at him, her poker face latched intently onto his presence. Then Shiro let out a sigh and went back to his plate.

-always finish your vegetables.

Damn bell peppers.

The crowd in the place died down somewhat. Twenty families became about fifteen. A subtle difference you wouldn't notice unless you've watched from the inside. Instances of actual silence popped up as the noise droned down in volume.

Their plates were scraped clean and pushed aside, their cups and glasses back onto the main stage. Shiro's mother had her cup just as she left it, while his glass was well on its way to another free refill.

The food was just as the reputation had said. The iced lemon was decent too. It was definitely a place worth stepping back into. 'Car-bone-era' seemed not to care anymore. He'd be more than willing to tank the embarrassing memory to get another bite in the pla-

"Tell me how she looks like."

Damn it, I just ate. Let me have a rest, at least, woman.

Nothing could escape this woman's focus. Nothing.

Reluctantly, Shiro described Krin. He described in short bursts of sentences, barely enough to form a static image in mind.

He described her skull faced demeanor, hidden underneath her long, straight hair, parting like little curtains, releasing an overwhelming yet lightly atmosphere on her every blind gaze. He described her height, and how she stood above everything and everyone else. He described the way she talked, and how she made it dead sure to pronounce every word ladylike and proper like the educated girl she is.

He thought it was sort of a tragic comedy. For a girl her volume, she was given such a menacing air to put off.

Then there were the things he left out. Unintentionally.

He didn’t know why. When the words came they just stuck themselves in his throat. It was a conscious decision his body made. As willing as he was to say it out, his body kept outright refusing. His mouth kept easing the words out of his mouth and yet the sound won’t come, no matter how hard he tried to pried his lips open to release the dam holding back his true feelings.

"If you need any help, I'll be at the counter, okay?"

"I'll be your first."

"It's obvious, you needed help-"

He gave up, eventually. There was something to those memories; the happenings of then that he unwillingly bared himself from mentioning, even to his own mother, as scarily intimidating her poker face dared him not to.

Shiro watched his mother listen. Watched her form her own mental image of Krin. He wondered what she looked like to his mother. Shiro hadn't mention exactly how tall was she, and Shiro was the tallest thing his mother had seen, at least to the extent of his knowledge. He hadn't mentioned her green scales, nor did he mention her sizable bust which he consciously left out with great difficulty.

“How is she like?”

And so Shiro told her again. He made it sure that he mentioned her verbal yet reticent way of speech and made it the main focus. He repeated the word ‘mannered’ as much as he could (3 times) to hit the message home. Then there was her reserved movements and somewhat absent-mindedness. It wasn’t obvious but Shiro could spot it in her usual goings. She was doing her best, for the two days Shiro spent in the library and the way back home with her.

Then he it happened again.

Her intent on helping every loose thread she’d encounter and her reluctance to leave them tangled, he left it out. There was no apparent reason to it. The words were there, polished by his mind and verbal ability, fresh to pronounce in sentences and converse them to his mother and again, somewhere along the mental production line of his words, some little guy managed to convince the manager that the whole thing was a bad idea and shut the entire thing down.

Again, the words jammed themselves in his throat, just bare inches from reaching his windpipe as actual, tangible sounds. They were left there, screaming and crying to be let out of this mental prison before dusting and dying away, back into the surge of memories, kept in a lockbox with a conspicuous note taped on it that said ‘dO nOT oPEN’.

Shiro tried again, but the lockbox was shut to its last hinge. Thus, he gave up again. Left his mother with what he gave and saw her refining her mental version of Krin with new information again.

Then Shiro’s mother dropped a bomb.

"Can I meet her?"

Shiro slammed his knee below the table.

The bang erupted into the cold, quiet air with a glassy slam. Metal and china clanged into one another as Shiro shot his legs back down to the ground.

What kind of a question-

The sound got drowned out almost instantaneously by the surrounding noise, but still-

How do I answer this?

He couldn't say no, nor could he possibly promise a yes.

"Maybe," was the best thing he could come up with.

"Really?"

Shiro didn't know the response to that. Thus, he went for the universal, non-agreeing shrug.

"Shame. I'd like to meet her someday. To see what kind of girl is she."

Shiro took a drag from his iced lemon. He figured that if he needed the conversation to stop he should probably let the silence do its job.

"You should've looked at yourself."

Yeah, yeah, woman. I should have- what now?

Shiro didn't knew what was printed on his face back then. He didn't have the slightest bit of an idea on what kind of an expression he put on that day. Only his mother knew and remembered deeply, even years after.

Then she spoke.

Shiro's mother's poker face never left, nor did it change. Yet, the tone in her voice switched to a higher pitch. The pitch changed something about her poker face. It was a change Shiro rarely saw. He'd seen times where he could swear on whatever's Holy that it did happen. He couldn't tell exactly what. He just couldn't put the words to it.

A sort of an amused joy, perhaps.

"You've never smiled this much before."

-

Meanwhile, a few dozen miles away, a moan dragged across a dark room.

The room was pink-walled, hung with streamers and plushies strewn across the sides. A queen sized bed sat in the middle of everything.

And right smack in the middle of the bed, a plushie found himself getting squashed between his mistress' chest.

It happened as soon as his mistress fell into an unsightly position a good hour ago. Since then he's been flailed and tossed and squished against two giant cushions of pressure between his cotton insides all night long.

His ears were the only parts of his body free from the crushing, swelling trap he unwillingly fell prey to. Among the turning and tossing, he caught three words, dragged out from her dreamy tongue.

"Noooooo, we're nooooot-"

The plushie could only wonder who she meant by 'we'.


	14. Serendipitous (doubted) Saturday

Imagine a fresh Saturday morning.

Don’t ask questions, just imagine. Not your typical Saturday norm, but those kinds of mornings where you watch on TV shows and such. Those mornings where the birds chirp, the breeze blows, the air smells of flowers and the mind yawns awake with an empty mind, free for the possibilities and chances for today. The mornings where the closest word to describe it is perfection.

Imagine yourself getting out of bed, good mood and confidence all boiling within your insides. You’ve got a day full of nothing and a whole lot of possibilities. You can sleep in and wake up with a Sunday as your second chance, or hit the big towns and carry out your nothings there. Pop in your earphones with some music and-

Ah, yes, the music. How could you forget? They were really underplaying it when they said that ‘music is the food to the soul’. It’s the sole lifeline to the soul. A soul without music is a car without an engine; a train without steam; a movie with no score. Just an empty husk of what it could be.

So you pop in a few tracks. Even your shuffling playlist agreed with your mood for once.

Stuck in The Middle With You by Stealers Wheel. You don’t know where you’ve heard this. You don’t even know why it’s on your playlist. You don’t even know who sang this. It probably explains the four figures worth of song on your hard drive. Maybe it’s a sign for you to finally clean out some undesirables on your playlist.

Then the song kicks in. At that point, caring is for the cowards.

Well I don't know why I came here tonight,

Neither do I, you say.

I got the feeling that something ain't right,

You don’t say, you say.

I'm so scared in case I fall off my chair,

Nothing to be afraid of, you say.

And I'm wondering how I'll get down the stairs,

No steps here, you say.

Then the chorus strikes and your body get possessed. You’re like a crook dancing out of a diamond heist. Your body jolts itself into action. You couldn’t bear to see yourself dancing in the mirror. Sloppy moves, robot arms and all. You couldn’t even bear to hear your singing. They say your voice sounds better when it’s yours, and not a whole lot to others. What if it sounds worse enough to yourself already? Your voice sounds like clanging tin cans deep in space. Why subdue yourself into such torture?

The music, my dear self. The music is the why.

You grab the speaker and shuffle your way into the bathroom. Everything seems so nice. So clean. So new. So fresh. You could spend your whole day in the there, provided the music says playing and the sun stays shining.

You set it next to the sink, where the sound shouts the loudest. You get your toothbrush out, break out the toothpaste and grumble with the chorus again with your deep voice, wondering if you’re ever going to get your jaws clean at this pace.

Then the chorus ends, and the classic guitar riff starts to play. Your body breaks out of the spell, but only for a spell. You get the paste in, and get your tools to work. Your hand moves with the beat. Every strum, every pluck, every echo, your toothbrush responds with a sweep on your pearly whites.

Then the vines come back. It was as if they grew right under the tiles, stretching their soft, phantom branches around your body. They got hold of your limbs, your body and your soul, once more.

You couldn’t help it. Even with your foaming mouth and your frothing toothbrush, you can’t help it. You just can’t help it. You have to dance. It’s like an astronaut in space without his helmet or his tank, right beside the release pod. He throws and flails his hands for his essentials, like your arms stretching and struggling to reach the unattainable beat in the air. Your legs shuffle across the tiles, the toothbrush in your hand helplessly dancing to the music as well-

Then the beam of sunlight hits.

By the laws of freak chance and accident, your body had grown especially tall to that exact point of the day where your exact height for this to happen. At that exact second, the sun in the Saturday sky had hit at just the right angle to the point where it’s shooting straight down your bathroom window in a concentrated beam of Vitamin D.

By absolute chance, the beam of light hits you right in your unsuspecting eye.

At that instant, the vines burn away with the light. Every nerve in your body jolts to a stop. Your body jams to an electrifying pause. Your toes jam into a fist; your head cocks to the side; your limbs contort into a grotesque angle; and your fingers explode into an open claw.

And the toothbrush?

It flies. Flies up the sky in a trail of cavity-beating froth. Then it falls. Falls straight down in a 9-out-of-10-dentists-approved arc to the uncertain bottom.

Down and down and down it falls into the…

-

“Shiro, m’ I right,” he asked.

Shiro nodded.

Silence breathed on for a short, awkward while before Shiro finally caught up with the ball game.

“Doug.”

The reptilian cashier spread a smile, “Almost thought you forgot. Glad you remembered.”

Shiro gave a nonchalant shrug in the cold, frosted air of the Olsen convenience store right behind his dorm. He had his paws fitted in his tracksuit pockets. One was fiddling with his wallet while the other bunched into fists as it tried not to get its arteries frozen over.

Shiro never really struck an agreement to the cold resistant department of his body. It was just one of those things he got unlucky from. It certainly didn’t help that this particular Saturday was especially chilly and coupled up with Olsen’s surprisingly effective air conditioning, Shiro was doing his best on staying alive and warmly unfrozen.

Meanwhile, Doug was rocking his bald-headed, scaly look with a white polo under his uniform apron. He seemed unfazed by the intense chilliness, despite his reptilian nature. Granted, he would be expected to gain some sort of resistance, given that he works under such conditions on a near 20 hour shift on a daily basis.

Yet again, Shiro was in his supposedly ‘wind-resistant’ tracksuit with an undershirt and even then, he felt he was at least three layers too exposed to the open air.

Doug broke a long, forked-tongue yawn, “Aaaah, sorry bout’ that. Cold makes me sleepy. Reptilian genes. Can’t fight it.”

Good for you. I’m dying out here. Canine genes. Ain’t working.

Doug checked the whirring machine next to the counter for the fourth time since Shiro’s arrival. He gave it a good hard slap with his palm, “C’mon, you God damn dinosaur. Work!”

The whole reason Shiro was even standing and sparring with the frozen wind came from the giant, bulky machine that was Olsen’s ancient cash register. In terms of technological advancement, it was a far cry from their air conditioning, which Shiro thought could use some downgrade through his already shivering body. It looked less of a machine and more of this sentient box that ate and spit money until it suddenly doesn’t feel like it and shuts itself down until someone hits it enough times.

In this case, Doug was slapping hard enough. The stubborn creature remained dozing in its mechanical limbo, showing no signs of waking up anytime soon.

The lizard looked back up to Shiro with a common cashier’s signature I’m Sorry But Even I Can’t Do Anything About This look.

Shiro gave a look back that hopefully translated to I Know.

It didn’t, because Doug immediately started apologizing, “Sorry man, I usually leave this thing on at dawn. Get the old dog running before the people start coming in for their sandwiches and newspaper. Didn’t know I’d get someone this early in a weekend. Saturday, even. It’s gonna take a while. Sure you want to wait?”

Shiro was asked that question a while before, and he replied with a shrug. It didn’t mean anything until he stayed for the next five seconds. Now he was regretting his decision but to say ‘yes’ now would be a surefire way to look like a pompous behind. At least from Shiro’s perspective. Maybe Doug wouldn’t think like that, but Shiro wasn’t going to risk it. Not with a guy whose name he finally knew two nights ago.

He gave another shrug and stood his ground to give it meaning. The cold was starting to freeze his canvas to the ground. Regret started settling in like a plague, but Shiro’s resolve hasn’t wavered. Yet, at least.

“You know,” Doug said, “you could just come back for the change another day, or I can send it to you. You live nearby, don’t you?”

Shiro shook his head. The universal reply of It’s Fine.

“You sure?”

It’s Fine.

“Not even for this toothbrush?”

It’s Fine.

Doug put the packaging back down on the counter. “Alright man, I appreciate that, thank you.”

Shiro silently thanked up there for not letting Doug ask why.

He couldn’t really say that he danced his toothbrush into the loo, could he?

Doug gave the machine another whacking, this time with a healthy dose of obscenities Shiro wasn’t sure if he’s supposed to hear. The machine screamed in a mechanical protest, pinging here and there within its ancient body as it succumbs back into its sleep.

Doug left out a sigh. The old beast didn’t feel like it for the day, and it probably wouldn’t until the next whacking session. He glanced to Shiro.

“Well, since you’re here, there’s some magazines over at the back. Food, cars, travel, pick your poison. Restocked the gravures, if you know what I mean,” and gave a hearty, child-like giggle for that.

Shiro gave a nod, and took up his word. Something to do while he gets a replacement for the poor victim currently sitting depressingly in his trash can back in his bathroom.

Come to today, Shiro never really explored the back part of the Olsen convenience store. He’d always get the sandwiches and the groceries at the front. He’d just grab a basket, throw in some stuff and would see himself out under a quick 5 minutes. Even at the night with the microwave macaroni, that was a quick 10 minute conversation. He’d never really waited in the store, much less spend time in it.

The back of the store was as cold as the front. Shiro didn’t know what he expected. His ears started itching and ringing from the chill. Then he realized he got so alarmed by his toothbrush that he left his earphones back home.

Is this guilt?

He scanned the racks on the wall. A panel of patterned, matte black metal with sheaves of magazines, neatly organized by respective categories. Children cartoon magazines filled the bottom while the grown-ups had their share of automotive news and beauty on the top.

‘Brand New Furnished Bathroom: Why You Need an Auto Urinal in Your Quarters, screamed one of the covers.

Damn it, I’m sorry, alright?

Shiro scanned his way to the right. Then he stopped looking and went back to his front. The titles morphed from Family Words to Monthly Daddy and the cover had a very scantily dressed man. It wasn’t rare to see undressed men on magazine covers, it’s just that Shiro preferred to have them undressed on the top, not the bottom.

On another note, there doesn’t seem to be any lights hanging above that corner.

Shiro picked one off the racks called Rice Gears. For such a culinary sounding name, the magazine cover had a rather strange hatchback with tricked out bumpers that seemed suspiciously like snow ploughs. It amused Shiro greatly. To his hilarity, the pages had more snow ploughs to follow.

Then he got his hands on one named Fam-million. It had those stock, smiling photographs of families with perfect teeth as covers. Shiro wondered if that was an actual occupation. His mother would be perfect for the business covers. They had every Top 10 Tips and Tricks for anything relatively related to family problems, ranging from getting your toddlers to eat their veggies to getting children used to their stepmother. There’s one about the “love talk” with your adolescent teenagers. It sparked a not-so distant memory of last night’s dinner.

Can I meet her?

He slotted the magazine back, straining his mind to forget about it.

I’ve never seen you smile this much.

Shiro took a deep breath among the metal racks on the back.

Do I really not smile at all?

Shiro spread a grin on that corner of the Olsen convenience store. How he looked was anyone’s guess. It felt weird, like pulling a sudden yoga pose in the crowded train station.

Suddenly, a voice thundered from behind, “I swear I’ll sell you for scraps if I don’t see you working-“, followed by a few dozen hard, metallic thuds.

Good luck, Doug.

Shiro pulled his face back to normal and shifted to the entertainment section. It was an eye-opener. He never figured how big of a deal people would make on pointless things. Apparently to these people, a celebrity switching her makeup color palette deserves a bold, artsy headline on the cover. The cover girl looked like she took a dive in a pool of pink glitter.

More pointless titles adorn the front page.

Used Tissue Sold For A Mansion!!!

Effigy of Rising Actor Made of Churned Butter Sighted, You Won’t Believe Who It Is

New Baby Shower for Her 6th Son?!

I dropped a toothbrush. How is that for a title?

He leafed through the thing. Incredibly, Shiro got wrapped into it really soon. Not even the occasional explosions of Doug’s hellish battle with the prehistoric machine could draw him away. As pointless as the stories seem, you can’t seem to read away from it.

Maybe it’s the pointlessness of it all. Like how the daughter of the Director of National Security just recently moved into the country. Admittedly, she was the looker. Shiro never had a thing for vixens but if he had to pick, his subconscious would be roaring for this one. There was a paparazzi photo of her walking into the airport and various pictures of her social media pictures, followed by quips from her fan club.

Shiro was surprised at the existence of fan clubs. She was only cute but Shiro didn’t know it’ll warrant a modern cult. Still, he could understand why. Anyone would be intrigued and charmed by her deep, orange pupils, all the more enhanced by the static yet fluttering eyelashes of hers. She had fur as thin as his, yet smooth with a milky complexion underneath that seemed well taken care of with a proper procedure more advanced than “apply shampoo”.

She had a loose perm, straightened on her sides and tied to a frizzy end that flowed to her slender hips. She hadn’t got any curves or shapes but her figure was enough to compensate for everything else. Her chest flowed with buoyancy as it hung below her fragile shoulders, her sleek back supporting her grace of her physique. Her slender legs arched in tasteful contours, her thigh swelling in perfect proportions with her calf.

The definition of beauty.

The rest of the articles read like unprofessional flaunts after that. Shiro got his camel’s back broken on the sixth celebrity sighting in the local Italian restaurant and switched things up.

The education magazines were plentiful, which isn’t a great sign. There’s as much variety in them as drywall. It’s always universally acclaimed professors and scholars whose name are as vague as a blind man’s dream. Someone made a new research about the rhinos’ sex life and how we can arouse them like we did with the pandas.

Someone get this man a medal.

Shiro read some more. There’s a six-page description of how chewing slowly can contribute to curing cancer. A dozen pages after that a college student solved a cold murder case after extracting strands of a parrot’s DNA out of a parakeet’s corpse. How the writers managed to make it boring, Shiro couldn’t possibly fathom.

Then something caught his eye. The name of his school was written on some little article on the credits page. A small little bunch of words taking a quarter of the paper. Some genius monkey kid hybrid managed to get a slot in his prestigious academy after passing the highest average at the age of nine. A portrait would certainly help in this article’s case but yet again, all it took was three whole seconds before Shiro completely forgot about the subject.

Then, as his hand was reaching for another leisure issue, Doug let out a victorious hiss with a triumph, “Hell yeah!”

Shiro breathed out a sigh of relief.

Doug was reveling in his cute, little glory as he fixed the machine up, “Dude, you wouldn’t believe it. I was like, totally swinging at this bastard. Got my hands busted up in this joint but heh, got the T-Rex running, did I-“

Shiro nodded slowly as Doug went on.

“-yeah man, I know right. Now just gotta pull out the scanner- hold on, needs a moment. Aaaaaand, there we go. There we go, get it beeping and stuff. C’mon, where’s the- ah, there it is. Now, here’s a little beep and…

“That’ll be two seventy.”

Shiro flicked out his wallet and did his little trick as he pulled out a ten.

“Dude, you gotta teach me that,” Doug quipped as he did exercised his cashier expertise.

Shiro shrugged as Doug dropped a handful of bills and coins on the counter before pausing for a decisive second. He looked to Shiro, looked back at the register and back to Shiro again. Then he went under the counter and started fiddling with something on a hurry.

Shiro watched with minor curiosity as he threw his change and the toothbrush into his pockets.

Then Doug came back, his shiny, bald head now caked with crumbling dust. In his hands was a grey covered box with a tiny, hand sized hole on it.

“Wha’ddya know,” he said as he dropped the box in a cloud of dust.

“You’re our one thousandth customer of the month.”

-

“Say, doesn’t it feel weird for you?”

Shiro shook his head, “No.”

“Really? I mean, if my first gym partner was the cashier down the convenience store I’mma would really cringe some.”

It’s Fine.

Apparently, the 1000th Olsen customer gets a free lucky draw every month. There’s no limit as to how low you have to purchase or how much you have to buy. Even if it’s a stick of gum, as long as you’re the contributor to the 1000th receipt, you’ll have your chance at the dusty old box. Prizes, according to Doug, are very different. You could either get a packet of tissues or a free purchase in a single receipt in the store.

What Doug didn’t tell Shiro, though, was how wide the variety of the prizes would go.

Even if he did, it still wouldn’t change Shiro’s surprise when he found out he’d won a free membership card to a franchise gym that coincidentally, had a branch just a few lots away from the train station. Also coincidentally, Doug frequents there and gave him his noble word to tag him along during his weekly Saturday evening trips, which coincidentally was today.

With 15 free visits and nothing to do, Shiro gave his best Sure, Why Not shrug.

With the sudden change of events, Shiro’s plans of doing a whole lot of nothing for the whole day got blasted into the realm of fitness. Even as mundane as it seemed to be, Shiro never expected himself to spend his Saturday night at the gym for the first time with the cashier from the convenience store behind his dorm.

Yet again, Shiro wouldn’t have it any other way. Partly because he couldn’t think of any other bright ideas grander than “listening to rock in your boxers”.

Plus, it’s been some time since Shiro worked out. Maybe he’ll get back on his old ways and habits. Maybe even his old physique. Maybe.

Paul Engemann was shouting out to Shiro on crashing through gates into his ear when he reached the gym. There stood Doug where for the first time, Shiro saw him out of his work apron. He looked lanky in his tank top and short shorts. To Shiro surprise, he have legs. Not that he didn’t have any, but seeing as to how he saw him behind the counter in his every visit, it was jarring to see them now, especially this exposed.

Doug’s first reaction to meeting Shiro was, “Dude, you walked here?”

He nodded, the cords of his earbuds bouncing among his black fur.

“The whole mile?”

He nodded again.

“Dude, you should’ve called me. I would’ve given you a- oh.”

Then they both simultaneously pulled their phone out.

Then, for the first time ever, Shiro gets a new contact on his phone that isn’t from his family: an experience he’d never thought he’d go through. It was jarring, at first, seeing as to how casual this new thing was. Then Shiro remembered how weird it is to have your first outsider contact to be the local convenience store cashier.

Doug had the same internal reaction, from surface’s glance. Even he never expected a frequent convenience store customer would be part of his contacts.

Still, it was something. For Shiro, at least.

“Well,” Doug said, “shall we?”

The gym was exactly Shiro imagined a gym to be, with less sweat and noise than he thought there’d be. For every five machines, three were being occupied. Everyone was in there. Fitness ladies; men with sweatbands; gym rats; people with a general sense of good health; young kids screwing with the machines for fits of giggles. It seemed like a family gym for all and by all, it meant all.

Everything was closely placed among the room, with tiny pathways leading to and through the machines and the dumbbells and the weightlifts. A mahogany counter sat right next to the entrance, manned by this menacing, bald human with cannonballs for biceps. He looked absolutely jacked with protein within every inch of his bulging veins. He had a permanent, twisted scorn on his face that seemed contorted into his facial expression at birth.

And Doug just walked past with a casual, “Hey Chad.”

Doug didn’t get his notice; Shiro did. He stopped on his tracks when Chad cocked his crossed sights onto his face. Some prehistoric DNA inside told him to make the break for it but luckily, his civilized cells were working just fine. He pulled out the once-dusty membership card he won and showed it to him. Instantaneously, a smile leaked out of the scorn before going back to his presumably regular face of contempt.

“That’s Chad,” Doug explained, “he’s been here since I’ve started coming. Works here, probably owns it to. Nobody’s seen him in action and I don’t really wanna see it. He never talks too. Stay on his good side and you’ll be fine, cause’ I really hate to see what happens on his bad side.”

“Okay, so this place is easy. Left is the dance studio. Old ladies for Zumba or yoga sessions go there. Inside is all mirrors but you could see through from here. Prevent the troubles and stuff, y’know.

“And the right’s the boxing space. Got its own ring, punching bags and gloves and all. Some real tough people there. Heard some wonder boy walked in there and went back out on a stretcher carrying his femur. Wouldn’t wanna have business with them if I was you. Stay away, and you’ll get to keep a life.”

Shiro nodded to them all. It was easy to remember. Do you thing, don’t mess up and don’t cause trouble. Simple.

“Also, this place counts your visit by the day. Basically, you can stay here all day but seriously though, would you? Drinks for sale by the counter. Just say the name and big Chad will take care of you. Toilet’s on the back, third stall doesn’t work. Bags on the bench, bottoms on the bikes. Good enough?”

Shiro nodded to that. Sure, he could do that, no problem.

Though the boxing grounds got his attention for a second.

He scanned the corner for a while. There was a makeshift ring, with mats and padded poles. Then there’s the sandbags, the maize balls, the speedballs and all. The sound rung from across the rowdy scene. The relentless pounding and the rattling sounds of the jingling chains hanging the bags. The funky stench of sweat pouring from the drained hard-ons, oozing out from the intensity in each punch and jab and cut.

Like how he remembered.

Memories.

“Aight’, so now the basic’s done, what’cha gonna do? What I’ll do is run for a second and go for the dumbbells. You?”

Shiro shrugged. He had no regime. No goal. No objective. He’s just there because of the card in his pocket and his curiosity to try out those workout songs he’s been listening to see if they actually work.

“I’ll follow.”

“Aight’ then, have it your way.”

Then, just as Doug was setting up the treadmills, a bustling cacophony milled into the entrance. Just as Doug said, old ladies with rolls of yoga mats going for the dance room to their left. It was a blast to the past, looking at them. Leopard-print leotards, fuzzy sweatbands, actual working bellies and stretchy yoga pants. They all walked in with gossip and the lingering smell of perfume. Under five seconds, Shiro identified lavender and flour among the waft of smell.

“Right, forgot to tell you about the yoga sessions. Have em’, every weekend night. It’s fun seeing em’ from the windows. There’s even a high school chick in the band. Quite the looker too, if you know where to look.”

Shiro can see why. He’d seen yoga taken to some extreme lengths before. The covers on the dark corner of Olsen taught him much.

The ladies continued flooding into the dance studio, some winking flirtily at Chad as they walked pass.

“Aight’, it’s all set up. I’ll show you the buttons and you can get on track.”

Shiro was turning back to check the workings when a familiar voice wrangled his ears. Even under the echoing voice of Paul Engemann, he caught the words with such ease that a chill flowed down his spine as he heard the sound.

He yanked his head to the side, just as the sounds ended right as he’s about to turn.

Simultaneously, the same voice called out, just as the source came into view.

“Shiro,” the voice said, with all the clarity the world had to offer to that sound.

Many emotions rushed into Shiro’s mind as he processed the sight before him. The coincidence, the freak chance and the pure percentage of this happening. Shiro thought nothing could top the toothbrush incident this morning but things do find a way.

Standing by the entrance, a yoga mat under her arm and a gym card in her other,

Krin.


	15. The Instinctual Sense of Defense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I removed double-spacing because that's mega retarded.

The instinctual sense of defense. Rhymes well, sounds good but all the more essential in the ancient world where tooth and nail were bare weapons of survival. Days where humans haven’t quite figured out peace and treaties and discovered that conflicts are best resolved with a bonk to the head. Days where safety is a luxury unheard to everyone and death comes as common as rain.

It had been what kept our forefathers alive, sensing prowling predators in the dense jungles and killing intents from their jealous cavemates. It had been what kept our great-great-grandfathers alive, winning wars, surviving plagues and enduring famines. It had what kept out grumpy, armchair-ridden grandpas brawling with the sun on their farms, walking out of trap-ridden forests and navy battles.

It is the one thing that had culminated out of millions of years’ worth of evolution to what we are today. Our “sixth sense”, or the tingle in your body, or that chill in your spine, or even the bare feeling that something “just ain’t right”. All coming together to form our most basic impulses to swerve your eye, move away, turn around and walk the other way.

It was speculated on how the “sixth sense” of today and yesterdays actually work. Maybe it’s a sense of intimidation of seeing something, be it scary, large or massive. A graphic stimuli influenced by the many before us that speaks the basic mental tongue of imminent danger and that running away will be the surefire way of staying alive.

Maybe it’s a supernatural ability unexplained but not incomprehensible. Like perceiving threat in a dark room, or staying away from something that “just don’t look right”, be it morbid or out of place that seems otherwise normal to another pair of eyes.

Maybe it’s simply one of the many wonders of the body undiscovered by even our best observatory tools and science papers. A secretive, mysterious gift from above best enjoyed without an instruction manual.

But whatever it was, Shiro was having a bad case of it. It was ringing and screaming in his head and he’d rather have it on ‘silent’.

He didn’t know why, nor what was it for. He’s become a wild, confused wolf on edge, bearing its claws and fangs, spreading a vicious snarl with a low deep growl mere nerve away from dropping to a shattering bark of anger.

Yet, the aggression was merely a façade. A mask to hide the intense, irrational fear brewing underneath its simple, primitive mind.

And before that very wolf, stood a creature. The wolf, conflicted and unsure of the creature’s actions and intentions, could only succumb ever deeper into its defensive state, triggered by the impulse to treat every unknown fear into a potential danger.

The creature simply showed, bearing no similar look to whatever the wolf had seen prior. It posed no such threat nor did it bear any intent, much less ill ones. Yet, the wolf remained fearful and wary, unwilling to risk a doubt.

Thus, the fear remained. The instinctual sense of defense coiled around its stance like vines around a tree bark, staring into the creature its jaw-like glare, its movements stuck in a limbo of uncertainty.

And that creature is none other than Krin herself.

To Shiro, it was a visual attack. His short, two-day history only gave him a bare impression. He had just gotten used to Krin as an accompanying presence in school. What he hadn’t gotten used to was seeing her as anything but. Dressed in an attire he never imagined her to wear, much less actually see, his instinctual sense of defense translated her into potential danger. Large, unfamiliar and boldly dressed, his body froze up on sight and on that very moment, transformed into a very, dangerous individual.

Krin’s usual physique, already well defined under her uniform, was all the more emphasized in her overstretched, sleeveless top. Her figure had never been this exaggerated before. The cotton fabric barely held on to her swelling chest as it draped over her bare hips in a dangerously loose flow. Her sports short were doing its very best. The cuffs were barely holding onto her thighs as it grasped desperately over her bottom.

Shiro was already trying his best not to notice that her usual smooth hair was now done in a subtle ponytail, revealing a dangerous portion of her neck, all the way to her shoulders. The jaws on her skull-like demeanor were pulled back for a few inches but that was nothing to distract his wandering eye.

His breath was held as Krin called out to him again.

“Shiro,” she spoke.

Shiro would’ve said something but at that same moment, a bulge was choking his throat. Not a single noise or peep came out of his lungs. He willed his mouth to say something and all he could manage was a wiggle on his snout.

“Shi-,” Krin tried again but was promptly dragged into the studio by some very wrinkly women in leotards with yoga mats slung on their back.

Through the glass, Shiro could see Krin lumbering her mass into the studio, her arms dragged along by the gossiping women. As Doug said, the inside was all mirrored. He could see her reaction as she fruitlessly tried to peer into through the glass with the sheer hope of catching a last glance to confirm her surprise.

“Dude,” a voice called from the back. It was Doug.

“You know her?”

He managed to swallow the lump in his throat before he answered.

“School.”

“Huh, small world. Well, you two can catch up anytime. They’ll be done in an hour. In the meantime, just enjoy the view.” He spoke the last few words with a smirk Shiro found dangerously playful.

Then he found out why.

Doug said he’d usually do his running for an hour before moving to the dumbbells and that was no coincidence. The treadmills are placed along the one-sided mirrors of the dance studio, facing the front which means they have a complete view of the inside. It does well for security but Shiro couldn’t see what harm CCTVs can do in this situation.

Thus, all he could do is pay his respects and try not to pry the old ladies working their fitness.

The treadmill started running its course as the ladies in the studio began their stretch-ups. The pace started out slow before picking up from a strolling to a walking speed. He could feel the mild burn of his limbs coming from a mile away. He was ready for the subsequent minutes to feel tough and-

Woah.

It was like a magnet, a spell on Krin’s body that drew his eyes onto her body. He merely took a furtive glance at one blurry figure before his sight got drawn and hopelessly mesmerized.

As the old ladies did their best to twist their ankles, Krin was arching her back as she pulled her foot from behind to her head. Shiro watched in total awe as his expectations and impressions shatter before his very eyes.

Despite her size, her flexibility bended her figure into a graceful, curved shape akin to a swan. A body curved into a flowing stature, her arms and legs interlocked in a form of physical flawlessne-.

Then Lust came and crashed the graceful atmosphere like it always does.

Her thighs, swelling and bountiful, arched in a magnificent curvature, like a hill. As she stretched, both hills kneaded against one another, the shorts all the more extended to its last thread. The curves revealed them even more, as trying to break free from their fabric imprisonment.

Then she switched legs. As the old ladies attempt their very best to touch their toes, Krin had hers slung to her back. Her body changed posture but the shape remained. The light hit just at the right angle for Shiro to see her gleaming, well-rounded thighs rise once again.

“Like I said,” Doug chimed in from the side, “if you know where to look.”

Shiro was going to agree when he noticed Doug’s line of sight was on another place. Towards the other more mature ladies on the other side.

Shiro decided not to ask any more questions on the subject.

The walking pace picked up to a jogging speed. The handlebars on the side became of use. Shiro grabbed onto it, still getting used to the treadmill’s “run where you are” business. He’d ran before, just not on new-fangled devices like this.

He decided to keep his eyes off Krin. Voluntarily. He’d watched her with so much clouded intention that the guilt coiling in his neck was enough to snap his head clean off. He stayed silent, kept his eyes on the old ladies with Doug, albeit with very different intentions.

The old ladies begun doing their poses. The first one seemed simple. All of them sat down cross legged on their mats and remained motionless for a duration. It seemed oddly surreal for Shiro. Here are peaceable women fighting their way with age through the olden practice of contorting poses while the other side of the gym was filled with buff, muscular rats punching the living hell out of sandbags.

The gym atmosphere, he presumed.

At this point, Shiro was practically running with his hands clutching the handlebars. It was kind of scary, if he were to be honest. He was used to having the breeze blowing on his face as he ran. There would the smell of the town as he’d dash through block after block. He would be hearing nothing but the music and the crunching sounds of dirt and rocks and the asphalt as he made the distance, all alone to himself and nobody else.

Instead of the crunches, he could only hear the whirring sounds of the rubber under his feet, spinning themselves over and over in a never-ending cycle in a predetermined direction and speed in here. There’s only smell in the air – the stench of sweat. The only wind you could ever hope for is from the oscillating wall-mounted fans.

In fact, the music seemed to dim itself out in here. It just simply didn’t feel like playing.

The gym... atmosphere? he presumed.

The tune in his ear switched tracks. Paul Engemann took his time off the stage as Kenny Loggins stepped in. Shiro instantly recognized the first five beats. Five deep, piano-like strums before a rocking bass broke the tune into a dirty song.

Revvin' up your engine, listen to her howlin' roar…

Not bad, Shiro thought. He could jog to this. It won’t be as good but at least it’s better than nothing. He listened to good ol’ Loggins belting out two more lines of dirty masculinity before it happened again.

Once more, the music changed and Shiro was robbed of his focus again. His red, crimson eyes shifted its gaze towards the elusive figure once more and just as the chorus struck, Shiro snapped a nerve in his head.

Krin had gone on her fours. Hands and knees on the mat, facing downwards and doing so in an angle that Shiro didn’t know whether to thank or to condemn.

Her back arched in a bend, flowing down the cusp of her rear. Her bottom cuffs of her shirt dangled perilously over her hips, an open window revealing her dangerous waist. Shiro burned his eyes out as he held himself back from squinting into the opening seams. One peek was all it needed, and Shiro was standing mere inches from that irreversible fall.

Highway to the danger zone!

He needed a distraction. He needed to look away. He needed something so equally bombastic and vivid that it’d blow his mind away from-

Holy s-

Hanging onto her loins was her sport shorts and by all the miracles from the heavens, it was still hanging on to the last of its threads. They were bursting from within the seams, pushing the stubborn fabric to its absolute limit. The fabric wouldn’t budge an inch, keeping up the struggle in doing its appointed job.

Though the shorts maintained its confines, it couldn’t compete with her dominating presence.

Her rear was mounting against her shorts in a shape so well-defined Shiro thought he was peering through the real thing. How they curved and rounded was indescribable him. His already thumping heart raced even harder, blowing away his fatigue for an explosion of adrenaline rushing throughout his body.

The instinctual sense of defense.

A rush of blood burst throughput his arteries. The image beheld by Shiro seared itself deeper into his memory, blasting even more into his piping veins. His flesh were contorting and flailing under his skin as control slowly seeped away from his sanity. He needed to confront the image. Solve the issue and face it head-on. He needed to relive the pressure. Acquaint with the creature and build a link. The unknown won’t be as scary when it’s understood.

Just walk to her. Get acquainted and everything will resolve itself-

“Shiro!”

Doug’s voice shot his caveman senses away from his head in a shotgun blast of sound. His head snapped back into sanity as he came back to himself. His sight returned; his blood cooled; his limbs relaxed and his crotch softened.

That was dangerous.

Kenny Loggins returned to his ear for his second take on his chorus. He clung to it with a toddler’s grip as the song brought his mind back to reality. He turned to Doug, now looking at him with a mix of worry and shock in his eyes.

“Dude, you okay? You were spacing out when you suddenly…” before he fell silent.

Shiro traced Doug’s dark, reptilian eyes as they glanced to his hands. Shiro looked down, only to see his fists clenching onto the handlebars in a violent clutch. He released his fingers, only for flakes of dark plastic to crumble out of his palm.

He clutched it so hard the handlebars imploded within his grip.

Then he heard a deep grunt from behind. He didn’t even need to guess whose. He only needed to look at Doug pulling an apologetic expression to a certain someone behind him. The classic I’m Sorry for My Friend He’s New look.

“Dude,” he whispered heavily, “I told you. Chad. Good side. No bad side. I don’t want to see it. You don’t want to see it. Nobody wants to see it.”

Then he spun widely around the gym, looking around.

“If running’s too stressful, try something else, huh? Maybe the bikes?”

Shiro turned his head to where Doug pointed. Right behind them were the stationary bikes. There were nothing special to them. Shiro could close his eyes, imagine one and see the exact same thing when he opens them again.

But they were facing the opposite direction. Away from the glass.

Shiro took Doug’s advice and went for the bikes, actively avoiding the choking glare from Chad at the counter.

He got on and fiddled with the equipment. There was a timer, a speed measurement tool, a heartbeat monitor and things only a cycling purist would heed notice and give purpose. It didn’t take him long to figure out the gears. First gear is easy; second gear is harder; so on and so forth.

This time the handlebars were made of pure metal, resistant to accidental grips. The seat was comfortable, with padded cottons supporting his cheeks as he rode. Shiro didn’t really had much of an experience with bikes, so this was surprisingly pleasant for him.

Better yet, it was facing away from the studio behind.

Thus, his legs got to work. He started off with the first gear, building up the momentum before turning the gears up. His playlist shuffled in a new track as he got into his fourth gear.

I Ran by A Flock of Seagulls. It was one of those songs Shiro heard once in the distant past, saved it and forgot immediately. It kicked off with a looming, dragging sound of a deep, droning synthesizer working its magic as a drumming beat followed before a cymbal crashed in for the main rhythm. A cherry guitar plucked its way into the song as the vocals began with a dreamy filter to it.

I walk along the avenue, I never thought I’d meet a girl like you. Meet a girl like you…

The tune served the mood well. It had a hypnotizing ring to it, to bring Shiro away from his head and out into an astral plane of new-wave pop.

He liked it. He enjoyed it very much. He sort of bounced his head to it. The chorus rang deeply into his head like a stuck piece of gum that never lets go.

And I raaaan, I ran so far awaaay…

I just raaan, I ran all night and daaay…

I couldn’t get away.

A cool beat, it was. Soothing, almost, amidst the crashing beats and the strumming chords. Shiro was about to hum to the beat when he noticed something.

Almost too uncanny to be true, the frame of the bike was at the perfect angle for Shiro to see what he saw. The light, the degrees and the position all made it possible for this to happen.

On the perfectly polished metal, the studio was reflected into the frame of the stationary bike. It wasn’t the whole studio, only a portion of it.

Krin’s portion of it.

Shiro almost choked on his own breath when he saw. Though as stretched and as twisted the reflected image may seem, there was no mistaking the figure printed on the gleaming surface.

As Krin bent down to her sides, the metal picked her up like an unsolicited camera. Her hips bend in a soft, fragile angle as she turned to the sides. Her legs spread wide open, her rounded cheeks pressing against the edge of the mat, working it to a mushy shape.

Krin’s posture lowered to the point where her chest is touching her thigh. Her overstretched top was starting to leak ungainly sights to Shiro as she reached even further below. Her ponytail swung down towards the leak, blocking the view but sacrificing her exposed neck to the unseen wolf outside.

A breath held in his lungs felt like a brick as he beheld the view in his eyes. The guilt had never choked him this hard before. Not even the deepest, darkest moments of his life could top the experience he was getting now. The fact only multiplied the guilt tenfold as the sinking feeling drowned his insides into a mush.

His body acted up again. His joints rattled as his limbs protested to be freed from its torturous captivity. It begged for action; begged for release; begged to be swung into action.

Acquaint the danger, his mind begged him to do so. Go right ahead and beat the fear. Get to know it- no, get to feel it. Conquer it and-

Shiro flipped the bike all the way to the sixth gear. His legs began burning as he maintained the speed on the every rising meter.

Keep peddling. Keep on moving your feet. Watch the meter. Don’t let it drop. Don’t you ever let it drop, you hear me, me? You hear me?!

Shiro hadn’t felt this much of a burn since his childhood days but yet again, not this much stress since he first met Krin. The attracting figure was a mere glance away from making its magic. Shiro couldn’t obviously crank his head up to the ceiling, either, not if he wanted suspicion. Thus, the meter.

I swear if you let this thing drop…

The music fueled his determination once more. He pedaled as fast and hard as his ankles would allow. His knees were falling off its joints; his flesh were melting from the burn; his heart was drumming like an insane rock band solo.

But at least his eyes wasn’t-

No, don’t you dare. Don’t you damn dare. I will dig you out myself if I see you looking at that-

Then Shiro got his head blasted onto the handlebars in full velocity.

He saw nothing coming. One second his eyes were adverting from the weight and the next they were thrown onto the metal like a football. He’d hit his head against the bike’s handle so hard the ring in his head drowned out the music.

He lifted himself back up, his sight wobbly from everything prior. Doug was off the treadmill and on Shiro’s back.

“Dude, what happened?! You slammed your head onto the bike out of nowhere, you okay?”

Shiro wanted to say yes but he wanted to ask how. Who slammed his head onto the bars and why-

Then he felt a chain rattling on his foot. He moved in for a look, only to find the chains of the bike broken and loose, now dangling over his ankle.

He biked so hard the chain got burst apart. The momentum shook Shiro so hard that he got rocketed to the front and slammed his head onto the bike.

What the hell, Shiro. What the hell-

A grunt sounded from his other side. Instinct told him to look but gut feeling and fear told him not to. Doug, who was checking Shiro out was now stepping away, an apologetic look in his eyes. He would’ve look convincing if his palms weren’t held high in surrender.

Shiro drew a deep, frantic breath and turned to his side. There stood Chad, out of his station and now looming over Shiro. The contorted frown on his face looked even more twisted than it was before. Shiro scanned through him as fast as he dared. His fists were bulging like boulders. They were holding something. Dangling under his fist on shoestrings was a pair of boxing gloves.

What th-

Chad rose one of his fist and pointed to the side, his expression unchanging. Shiro followed his finger and landed on the sandbag at the other side of the gym. Shiro turned back, only to have the boxing gloves shoved to his snout.

I see.

Shiro couldn’t possibly tell what was in Chad’s mind but he couldn’t ask either. He wouldn’t ask why he had given him the gloves and pointed him to take his energy out on the punching bags. He wasn’t even sure if that was the intention. Yet again, he wouldn’t want to risk a question on a man who looked constantly on edge to break someone’s kneecaps. His head still throbbing, Shiro took the gloves and stepped away from the broken bike.

Meanwhile, Doug was frantically prying for answers.

”Shiro, you sure? I mean, you only broke two equip- sorry about that Chad, really- but boxing? Do you even know how to? Not to break it so hard to you but these people don’t play nice. How about you take a break and-“

“It’s fine,” Shiro said.

Doug was taken aback, “Fine? I don’t know what happened to you tonight but you crushed a handlebar, slammed you head and broke a bicycle chain. Not to be a cynic but that is not what people call fi-“

“I know.”

“Know? Know what? Know how to slow down and rest or-”

“How to box.”

“Wh- oh, you do? Well, that’s oka- wait, not okay. Dude, it’s great you know how and all but this isn’t your kickboxing classes. These guys are actually pro-“

“I’d be fine.”

I need to take my mind off things anyway.

He looked at the bike, now defunct and probably unusable till’ a man with a toolbox shows up. He looked at the metal frame and the figure, still stretching on-

No. Go there, hit a sandbag and forget about it.

He left the bikes and made a big round to the boxing section of the gym. Busybody eyes followed Shiro as he made his way to the sandbags. It wasn’t a scene but the amount of attention Shiro was garnering might as well made it so.

“Sorry. I’ll try to pay,” Shiro said as he passed Chad.

He replied with nothing but a grunt and a finger held high, still pointing at the sandbags.

At least I’m away from the glass.

The gym rats on the other side took no notice of Shiro when he stepped into the place. Doug watched Shiro as he walked his way to the boxing side. He took one final worried look before reluctantly getting back to his treadmill. The following eyes lost interest and the gym resumed to its usual atmosphere, as if a wolf hadn’t broke a handlebar and an entire bike moments ago.

Chad walked back to his counter, his crossed eyes now staring menacingly at Shiro from his station.

Shiro took a deep breath and slotted in his fists into the gloves. An old feeling invoked his heart as he put them on. The last time Shiro had these on were some years ago. The time passed but the feeling never changed. He felt the soft cotton and leather brushing against his fur as he tied one glove to his wrists.

Feels a little tight.

He got both his gloves on and chose a punching bag, right at the corner of the place where no-one would look. He bent his back, shifted his shoulders and land his first punch.

Then everyone shifted their gaze and looked at Shiro.

It was as if Shiro hit a magical pause button that stopped the gym rats every move and action. They all stared at this lanky looking wolf whom they’ve never saw in their territory suddenly have the blind bravery and the audacity to start punching in their home turf.

Shiro stopped as well and stared back. Shiro held his very best not to have his legs give way. He didn’t know what happened nor what he did but his bare instincts told him not to move. Let them lose interest, glance away and punch softer.

Then a guy started walking towards Shiro.

He was a quarter shorter than Shiro but twice as wide. He was a half-bear, half-human in nothing but kickboxing shorts. His rounded ears and fuzzy tailed looked out of place as his aggressive demeanor leaked out of every pore of his muscular presence. Every bulge in his body looked jacked with protein. He didn’t have the same effect as Chad (still staring from behind) but it was close.

He went on the other side of the punching bag and held on to it, half squatting with his face against it.

Trainer, Shiro thought.

“You new here, ain’t ya,” his voice was squeakier than Shiro thought.

Shiro nodded.

“Thought so,” he said. “Start punching.”

And so Shiro did. He landed his usual shots, thumping punches, one after another to the leather bound bag dangling off the ceiling by a rattling chain. The staring rats went back to themselves, reliving Shiro from their menacing presence.

“So, I don’t know why Chad did what he did,” the man began speaking, “but here, we listen to him. Man’s the boss. He’s the one that convinced the manager to put a boxing ring here anyway.”

Shiro nodded. He couldn’t possibly imagine the intention but he could imagine the scenario. A timid guy in an office beset with this giant requesting for a boxing corner in his gym. It probably went over the budget but it won’t nearly top as much as the medical bills if his answer was no.

“So you’re here because big boss Chad let you,” he said, “if not, we would’ve slammed you back to the dancing chicks on the other side.”

Shiro nodded to that as well.

“You hear me? Or is that music ringing your head stupid?”

“I hear,” Shiro said.

His muscle memory picked up the momentum and rhythm as he flung more punches. He threw in an uppercut and a side jab and he went. Unaware to himself, Shiro began bouncing on his toes. He swung a wide fist that connected hard onto the bag. The man behind got tossed back a fraction when Shiro hit.

“Hey, not bad. You know your stuff,” the man sounded impressed, “Now sit your butt down and don’t get flowery on me.”

Shiro had no idea what that meant but he got the message. Even Laura Branigan thought so as well as she belted out her one-hit wonder Self Control.

It was completely uncalled for as the tempo simply was a mile’s difference from Paul or Kenny or the Seagulls. This seemed more suitable in a heartbreak situation than a gym routine. Nonetheless, it had a good wondrous cycle to the rhythm, with a slow, heavy riffing guitar rolling in the background. It was no gym music, but it had the same effect.

In the night, no control…

Eat it, Laura, Shiro thought. I’m as controlled as a flight plan.

He landed a few more shots onto the bag. It felt good. Really good. He wondered why he hadn’t found this gym in the first place, why he threw his old gloves away back then. Then he remembered and tossed the notion to the back of his head.

No. Never again.

He shook his head and went back to the momentum, only for it to be thrown off completely.

Behind the bag and the man was a framed photo. It had a black and white picture of a boxer raising his arms victoriously over his head with a champion’s belt over his shoulders. An aesthetic painting for the atmosphere, Shiro presumed at first before he noticed something.

At that very angle, the light bouncing off the glass protecting the painting made it so that at one fraction of the glass, a reflection of the studio way behind was shown very much visibly.

He didn’t even need to look clearer to see the old women bending their hips on their mats.

Okay, Shiro thought, at least it isn’t Krin.

He was right. Krin didn’t show up on the frame.

She showed up in his mind instead.

As he took a glance on the old ladies, a phantom image of a giant, alluring figure conjured into his sight.

No, no, NO.

Now Shiro had nowhere to go.

You take myself, you take my self-control, Laura mockingly sang.

The phantom Krin wasn’t as real as the actual reptile and yet, the effect stayed the same. As the women on the picture began raising their arm, so did the phantom Krin.

Get her out, get her out-

He couldn’t. The phantom Krin started stretching her arms into the sky, against her bony face. She had a cheeky expression to her pose unlike the bashful and timid Krin in the studio but it didn’t make it any less bold. She had her hips swayed to the side, showing off her overstressed shorts, revealing more shapes and curves Shiro couldn’t possibly ignore.

Look away from the glass.

And he did. He yanked his focus back onto the bag. He started punching harder, jerking his elbows and pulling his shoulders ever harder and faster. He lobbed an especially harsh punch that twanged a nerve in his wrist.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

The phantom Krin was still well and alive and viciously posing in his head.

Stop, stop, STO-

In no way did the phantom Krin stopped.

Instead, she went down on her knees, her thighs spread apart with her arms still held high. Shiro’s imagination filled everything else that was needed to be seen. Her chest, legs, features and all.

He couldn’t even feel the guilt in his head. His mind was being drowned in all sorts of undesired feelings.

Then, in an unprecedented move, the phantom Krin reached under her chest.

No, what are you doing- no, no, stop-

Her fingers simply closed around her breasts as she gave a teasing, lopsided smile as big as her skull-like face could form. Then the palms got closer; the fingers tapping against the fabric of her top.

Shiro was losing his head. He was losing his sanity and he could see it burning down to the ground as he watched helplessly. Even his own mind didn’t belong to him. He could only stare as it torturously taunts him with his own guilt.

The phantom Krin moved again. She stood as her hands reached to her thighs; her curving hips raising to the sky; her breasts netted over her shirt as they dangled.

Get. It. Off.

He bunched his fingers harder. His claws dug into his palms as he slammed them into the bag. The chain rattled furiously as the bag swung and thud against the punches.

Shiro held onto the last shred of sanity he had. With every fist he threw, a nerve gets snapped. As the phantom Krin in his head grew in intensity Shiro slammed even harder onto the bag.

None of it worked.

Then came the last straw.

The phantom Krin stuck out a tongue, a move Shiro never even thought she would do, ever. She moved her body back up on a straight posture, her hands still on her hips.

What are you doing this time-

Then her hands grabbed the top of her pants. She pulled a finger out and stuck it on the edge of her jaw. Then they got to work.

The chain rattled harder.

No, NO-

Shiro forced his mind shut. He blinded his mental eye and tried to seal it out of his head. None worked. Never once had his head went this berserk to him before. Never.

The bag shook more violently.

Don’t you fu-

Then, with the slip of the finger, the shorts came-

NO.

“SHIRO!”

Then everything stopped. Everything snapped. Everything grinded to a halt.

The phantom Krin was gone. Disappeared. Vanished completely, as if she was never in his head before.

Shiro drew his head back. His sanity returned and so did his control. His mouth was heaving air in. The bag in front of him was swinging. Laura was still lamenting about her man in his ears.

The gym, however, fell silent.

Shiro turned back, only to see every pair of eyes there is in the gym, save for the studio, was staring at him. Doug was off his treadmill, now staring at Shiro with a mix of wonder and fear in his gaze. Even Chad, his menacing glare ever still present.

This time, however, he could sense shock in his pupils.

Even the boxers had stopped. Their stares returned but this time there was a sense of disturbance in their eyes. Shiro could see it in every single pair of them.

What, what did I-

Then he heard a shuffle behind him.

The man.

He turned back to see him, but he wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere. He was holding the bag but now he’s-

Then he heard a grunt.

Shiro looked to the floor, and there the man was. He laid there sprawled across the floor against the wall, his face blank with shellshock in imprinted across his expression. He looked as if he was grabbed by the neck and tossed against the wall in high velocity.

The bag was still swinging in metallic rattles sounding off into the silent air. Shiro grab hold of it, stopping the motions and the sounds. Only silence remained.

He took another look around, only to be greeted by the same sight once more. Everyone’s eyes said a little something. They were looking at him differently, even the boxers. First time had a pinch of curiosity; this time was filled with fright and terror.

They were looking at him like a monster.

Shiro didn’t know what to do. He took off his earphones, expecting someone to react with at least something. Nobody moved a muscle. They only seem to stare at him with growing fear.

Shiro looked back to his hands, the boxing gloves still wrapped around his hands.

The reason I never went back.

He looked back up again, the alarm ever rising in the people’s eyes.

Oh, boy.


	16. Her Thoughts and His Wish

Krin stepped out of her shower, fresh from the scented shampoo and lethargic from the post-yoga fatigue. It was the good kind of lethargic, where your body feels loose and flexible and not like stale cardboard. She stretched her joints and limbs as she wiped herself, feeling the tiredness leaving every nook and cranny in her body.

She left the towel draping over her neck. She liked the feeling. An enveloping, moist warmth covering her shoulders. It gave a somewhat bizarre sense of tranquility and safety. It was one of the things she couldn't explain off her tongue. It was just something that was.

Maybe it was something to do with her cold shoulders. She always had cold shoulders, metaphorically and literally. Perks of being taller than average, perhaps.

Krim went to one of her mirrors. She had four. A tall one in her closet; a round one atop her vanity table; a small one on her sink and a big one behind the sink where she went. An obscure layer of fog covered her mirror, as it always had after her showers. She wiped a portion off and saw a white skull staring at her from the reflection.

An average, reptilian, dull-coloured skull. A mortifying sight to those not used to seeing bones. People might glance at it. Be it in public or in restaurants. They might scantily wipe their eyes across and forget about it. They wouldn't stare at it for long.

Unless it's moving, or attached to a body. In this case, both.

She wiped the rest off with her towel. The fog began parting ways, leaving an oval, moist frame on her mirror. There she saw the sight. Her full body. A normal, schoolgirl's physique, just scaled slightly larger than average Jane Does.

Her body had caught a few glances, at least those she had noticed. Maybe it was her reptilian appearance that intrigued, or her sheer size, or maybe, just maybe, by the slightest of chances given by the heavenly above, her womanly appeal. People have taken glimpses on trains, in class, or on the streets. Some may even have peeped a little longer than they should've but one thing is for certain. They would never stare.

Until they saw the head.

Krin was always reminded of it, every time she uses the mirror. She didn't mind it, nor did she care for it. Her appearance didn't matter to her, whether she looked prettier or worse; her sheer size didn't bother her at all. Yet.

Yet.

There's a lingering feeling. A tiny patch of numbness in her otherwise iron-clad mentality, never doing harm but always reminding her of its presence. It would remind her of her size, of her appearance, of that skull of hers. It would remind her of her giant body, or how she could lift more than most men, or how people don't usually have unhinged jaws exposed from their cheeks.

That patch of numbness would make her question things. Not 'what if I'm prettier' or 'why do I have this face' or anything as middling as those problems. Rather, she'd question her difference. Not to others, but to a possible future.

She'd stare at the mirror after every shower. Maybe a minute or two; maybe even a quick second if she was busy. No matter how quick, that numbness would spring up like a gopher in her head and clang on her mind.

What if I wasn't this big? What if I was different? Would I still be doing what I do? Would I still be as helpful? Would I still be what I am today?

She'd stare at her skull and go

What if I had a real face, like Father? Would people still stare? Would people still stay away?

She didn't care what light was shed on her impression. She didn't care if she was a monster, a creature or a specimen of the eerie to others. Still, the questions still rung.

Would there be change?

Would I be the same?

Would I be different?

And the questions would come and go. They go as quick as they'd come but they'd still come nonetheless.

But not tonight.

Today Krin thought not of her body, her skull or what others thought of her at the mirror. Today, she thought of a boy.

A wolf.

It was as if the patch of numbness grew a new occupant, and that is an actual worry of a person's impression of her.

For the first time of her life, she was concerned of what a boy thought of her.

He saw me. He saw me, didn’t he? He was with a lizard at the treadmill in the gym. I wanted to talk but Merida pulled me in.

She heaved a heavy breath out of her chest.

What was his thinking then? Was he thinking about Friday? Friday was a misunderstanding. I really just wanted to help with his homework, not like a d-d-date that Mother said.

Her mind dived a reluctant deep.

It’s just homework, yes, it was just homework. I knew that and he knew that, too. Yes, he only looked surprised because he was glad I could help, not because of the d-d-date nonsense Mother said. Right?

Right?

…

Did he really think that way?

Did he really-

Then she spun around and went to the sink. She squeezed a roll of toothpaste on her toothbrush and resumed her nightly routine. Her jaws encompassed more teeth than most species and it’s of utmost importance that she keeps exceptional dental hygiene.

That’s right, she should be focusing on brushing her teeth. Get her gums clean. Don’t forget her inner teeth too. She has two sets. A pair on the outside and a pair on the inside. Got to get them clean, got to-

Did he really-

Usually, at this point, the questions would’ve left her head clean.

But not tonight.

-

The first rule of thumb, check your surroundings. Check either if it's open, closed, junked, clean, or crowded. Process your environment and run the stats. Is the ground hot; are the walls tough; is the ceiling low; is the floor littered with trash: what tools are there within reach of you and your enemy; things like that. If there's folks watching, walk away. If someone unrelated is endangered, walk away. Better to risk an angrier opposition than to harm a passerby.

Second rule of thumb; position. In more elaborated words, know your place. Not in the metaphorical sense, but literally. What are the enemy; what are they capable of; are you outnumbered; are they equipped; can you avoid this fight if possible; factors as such. The answer to the last question is usually negative but answer it as such enough and you'd get a general sense to the first few questions soon.

Final rule of thumb is simple; hit hard and hit fast. No special moves or any shouting of any kind. Keep it quick, quiet and savage. Your ideal scenario is for the guy to go down in one hit. Aim for the vitals and strike it hard. Don’t strike first. Let them come to you. Keep a distance. Stand still and let them assess you. Give them a chance to walk away. If they come running, show them why they should’ve taken the chance. Move only when it’s necessary. In simpler words, show them who’s boss.

Three rules of thumb for an unbreakable defensive strategy.

So who’s being attacked? Shiro. Where is he? On the sidewalk. To his left is an empty concrete road and to his right are wired fences. Don’t need to see what’s beyond. Focus on what’s close.

Who’s the enemy? Three guys. More specifically, three cats. All Domestics. Short on the 160 side. What are they wearing? Baggy outfits. Easy to grab on and throw. One had a chain hanging off his jeans. Might be useful. Are they armed? No, but watch out for brass knuckles and pocketknives. Are they brawlers? No. They look skinny and lanky. They might be Swingers. Judging from their looks they might be brothers. They’d most probably attack in groups with some half-baked strategies.

They all looked as if they’ve never lost a round, with their smug looking faces and such. They’re probably bullies. Going in swarms; doing dirty moves. They’ve never faced somebody with actual experience.

Somebody like Shiro.

The ring leader stepped out. Shiro assumed he was the leader because he stepped out. He had a bombastic purple bomber jacket and a saggy pair of yellow shorts. He pulled out a brass knuckle from his back pockets as he came. Scratch that, they’re armed. All of them. If one brother is armed, the rest would be too.

“Ay, we’ve heard bout’ ya’,” the cat screeched, “you beat Big Bear, didn’t cha’? Broke his bones and sent him down ta’ ER? He sent a couple ol’ guys down to wipe you but they din’ do scratch. Then you got all bored n’ shoot n’ went ta’ Big Bear ‘imself. Well, too bad he din’ send me. Now he comatose on white sheets. See, without Big Bear the gang leader spot is all free and no one’s steppin’ up cause’ they all pussies. Guess what, since you beat Big Bear, I’mma beat yo’ ass, bring yo’ head wit’ me and sit on the table wit’ me an’ my bros. They would finna’ recognize the Pultzier brothers AIN’T DAT RIGHT, BOYS-“

The other two cats, dressed in equally saggy and bombastic outfits bared their teeth as they screech out a “hell yeah!” and a “bring this fool down!”

The ring leader continued, “Lemme tell ya’, I’m gon’ be the richest pussy down the block wit’ my bros (hell yeah, whoop whoop) an’ they would finna’ show us some respect. So go ahead, do me a favor and cut yo’self to the floor so dat we don’t hafta’.”

Shiro wasn’t listening. He didn’t hear the cat’s “finna’”s, “I’mma”s or “Big Brad”s. He was focusing on his position. He was a good three meters away from the nearest feline. He spotted them halfway down the street and only confirmed their presence when one of them started hissing at him.

So what are the odds? Decent. These guys look experienced but they aren’t pros. You could probably count all of their victims with ten fingers. They never lost a fight, which means they would let their guard down. Armed to the knuckles but not to the teeth. Avoid fisticuffs. Running is a bad idea. They would start chasing and Shiro wasn’t a fast runner either. So the fight is unavoidable.

Fortunately, there’s no one else around. The street is deserted. No milling passerby, no bus stops, no open shops.

No witnesses.

“So wut’s it gonna’ be? Yo’ claws or ma’ teeth?” The cat bared his own set of teeth. They were all gold plated. Probably sprayed on, judging from their appearance. “You better start tearing yo’ face off or these bad boys gon’ do it fo’ ya’.”

Shut up. Silence. Don’t say anything. Let them question you. Don’t answer. Keep them either intrigued or agitated. Uncertainty works best if against.

“Ay, you retarded or what?”

Shiro, 14 years old, dressed in a plain, white tee and a pair of jeans, carrying nothing but his briefcase under his pocketed arms, stood straight, tall and silent. His red eyes stayed open and focused, but without aggression. He stared with a mix of attention and nonchalance. Let them know you hear, but you don’t care. Let them know you have better things to do than them.

The eyeballing persisted for a moment. Shiro stood there, unflinching from the intimidation or whatever it was those guys thought they projected. It was how every fight started, how every fisticuffs ignited and sometimes, how it ends. There and then, where he stood, he showed unparalleled confidence. A literal mountain. He might as well be standing to their faces and growling:

You don’t scare me, pussy.

Nothing can move him. Not the cats, at least.

It worked. It worked like a charm, as if it was a magic spell.

The ring leader’s smug stayed on for a second before wearing off. It wore down, contorting into a sinister cross in its feline eyes. Its smile stayed, but the playful eyes were lost. Shiro spotted those eyes from a mile away. He played it in his head like a simulation and it shook hands with reality. Things aren’t working out for the guys.

And they don’t like it.

The mocking gazes were lost, replaced by a deathly gaze.

“Aight’ then,” the cat said, “‘ave it your-” and launched a swinging fist towards Shiro. A cheat move. A surprise attack before finishing a sentence. Effective, but amateurish. The cat got two inch close before Shiro sidestepped towards the fences. The guy windmilled his fist for a second before stopping on the other side.

Shiro gazed at the cat as he went. A burst of energy sent the cat panting. The glare remained. It wasn’t fun anymore. This guy just toyed with the leader and the followers saw it all.

One to his left, two to his right. He faced the road ahead, staring at the other side. He gave no attention to the other cats. Her ghosted them all, acting as if they were wisps of the wind. As if the lunging cat was nothing but a mild gust.

One from the right pounced. He tore his left arm out and swung it inwards towards Shiro. He aimed a low blow, going for his abdomen. He furious shot that Shiro dodged by another side step. He lunged towards the road and missed the fist by mere inches. The guy crashed against the wired gauze. The jingles from the impact howled in humiliating laughter.

Two attacks, two misses, and Shiro hadn’t even had his hands out of his pocket.

It wasn’t frustrating anymore. They were angry. The funny slangs stopped. The bombastic attitudes were lost.

It’s business now.

Shiro released his left fist.

A cat from behind came rushing. Shiro didn’t care who it was. It was going down. Shiro heard the steps. Low arc, aiming for his hips. He turned and was met with a tackle towards his kidney. One of the trio grabbed his tail from the front and held on. The other two came rushing.

Disable and advance.

The aim for disable and advance is to keep the target immobilized and let the other guys land blows while the tank keeps the target trapped. A simple yet effective move.

Unfortunately, that required the target to actually be immobilized.

Shiro grabbed the cat on his abdomen by the scruff and rose him up to the air, one armed. The other guys stopped, a meter away from him. The cat in his hand was stunned. Shiro slammed him to the asphalt before he could recover. He flung his elbow towards the sky and slammed the cat head fist towards the street. The impact was covered by the cat’s yelp of pain, stopped short by the rocks he swallowed from his blow on the asphalt. There was audible sound of a broken bone squirming around masses of flesh as Shiro released his grip. Gargled coughs was shortly followed by a death silence.

One knockdown. Not a knockout. This guy may step up again, if he’s stupid enough.

Now it’s a one-sided Mexican standoff. Two cats, two brass knuckles, one wolf, one fist, one body between them all.

The cat on the left spent a decisive second and pounced. He slid his foot across the ground and launched himself in a swing. He pumped a blow from his joints, shutting his fingers into a fist, sending it flying towards the wolf.

It did nothing, not even the swinging blow he launched with it did anything. Shiro pumped up his shoulders and threw out a fist faster than the cat reached half point. Shiro barely braced the impact while the cat met a full frontal blow to his face.

Shiro heard all of it. A cracking skull, a broken nose, his fangs spilling and crashing in its cavity. The cat simply swayed on its one foot before falling to the ground, joining his fellow brother on the concrete. Blood oozed from the obscure face hidden from the asphalt, meshing with the dark rocks.

Unlike his still-choking brother, this one simply fell quiet.

The last one stood to the side.

The ring leader.

All hiss and growl, and no bite.

He trembled where he stood, all bombastic attitude lost from the sight next to him. The slangs and the growls, all resulting in two brothers bleeding on the floor, one choking and one destined to breath from a straw for the next few months.

The bomber jacket he wore looked less of an attire and more like a piece of useless armour.

The brass knuckle trembled in his hands. The aggression in his eyes drained away from Shiro’s act of self-defence. He was still processing what was happening in front of him.

Shiro slowly put down the briefcase under his right arm and laid it down on the asphalt below him.That meant everything. It meant he was finally being serious. It meant he was finally showing his true strength. It also meant something else.

All your threats and growls, and it only took me one arm to deal with two of you.

He drew out both arms out of his pocket and laid them dangling beside himself. A lethargic swing, minor spasms of action.

Come anytime you like.

The cat watched. He stared. First at his brothers, then to Shiro. If he was human, he would’ve been sweating buckets. Too bad, he isn’t, because the stain on his jeans looked all the more obvious. The metal in his hand shook in violent vibrations, nearly slipping off his grip.

His fangs jittered within its confines, fearing for itself. Every last inch of his body was shaking to its absolute ends. Every molecule in the fibre of his being begged to run, to flee and to get out.

There wasn’t a sane voice left in his head. All there’s left were primal howls, near caveman-like screeches wrenching his legs to pounce away.

But the cat held on. It held on to the last strings in his head. The strings gave him two choices. To run. Leave his brothers behind. Be the ridicule of the underworld and never see the world with his head held high.

Or fight and join his brothers in the hospital ward.

He’d just be another addition to this wolf’s victim count. Another number to the kill pool.

He’d be snapped in half with a reality check so great he wouldn’t be able to recover. He’d lose his power, his strength, his energy, his heart and everything else he’d ever had up till then.

What to choose.

What to cho-

A decisive second was all he took. In that one sixtieth of a minute, his legs turned liquid. They sank deep into his jeans, liquifying down to his joints.

The next sixtieth, his joints snapped into a solid state. His arms and legs exploded in a rush of adrenaline, gushing piping hot blood through every vein in his body.

He burst towards Shiro.

WIthin a sixtieth of that sixtieth, his fingers were eating the metal in his hand.

The next sixtieth of that sixtieth, he threw his fist into a blinding speed, the brass knuckle gleaming as it soared towards Shiro’s expressionless face.

The subsequent sixtieth saw the cat releasing a howling screech from his fear stricken throat, baring fangs as it threw his wrist with every might in his body.

Three months later, the cat found himself in a hospital ward, wearing a metal mask while breathing through a tube. His other two brothers survived, but they weren’t awake, yet. He was the first. The attending nurse told him that his face got literally caved in. He was lucky to be found in time, or the bone shards in his throat would’ve choked him to death, along with the pieces of asphalt in it.

Some days after that he had a conversation with the doctor and got wind that she’d found some weird material within his injury. The doctor couldn't see his expression from the metal ask, but the cat did somewhat of a grimace when he heard it from her. It was a grimace out of fear, not anger.

“It’s really strange to find such a thing in an injury like yours. I won’t pry, but I already have theories as to your cause. I won’t contact your guardians or the authorities either. If you’re old enough to be done to this bad, you’re old enough to remake your choices. But between doctor and patient, I must say-

“It’s strange finding black fur in your lungs. Like I said, I won’t pry, but I won’t mind hearing either.”

The cat never gave his answer. Two months later the Pultzier brothers got better enough to check out, with one on crutches for his back and one mute from having too much damage in his windpipe.

The brothers finally decide to make their mark in the legitimate world. One of them became a novice mechanic while the other two became fast-food servers.

They changed, not because they’re injured or because they finally saw the light in life.

But because every night, as they lay in their bunk beds, they’re reminded by the sight of that black wolf’s emotionless face.

They sold their knuckles to the pawn shop and buried whatever police-unfriendly items and evidence they had in a field nearby. What they couldn’t sell was their fear and memories.

One wolf, one month, one whole dream to dominate the underworld.

The wolf’s gone to some far-out place, based on the word on the streets. He moved away with his ma’ or sumthin’, their old accomplices said.

Right now, under a full moon, they sat under the awning of a lavish diner. The ring leader now inherited a garage while two of them became shared branch managers of a fast food franchise. They ate and drank and smoked and laughed but beneath that look, they were hiding the same thing in each of their hearts.

That if it wasn’t for him, they would be eating and drinking and smoking and laughing and screwing girls in some basement beneath a building serving as the headquarters of the town’s extortion racket.

But they were lucky enough not to be dining in the heavens with their parents.

The wolf, they thought as they stared at the sky above.

That damned wolf.

-

Right now, under the same full moon, Shiro was panting on his sofa.

His fur, ruffling over his naked body, waved to the open balcony of his apartment. His breath, ragged and irregular, blew warm air into the cold wind. His limbs, shaking in grimace.

A bad dream. A bad dream.

Or rather.

A regretful memory.

Shiro held the plastic bottle of water in his hand, half-finished. He took a long drag before setting it down on his coffee table.

He remembered faces. Broken faces. Broken by his own hands.

The cats.

He didn't even remember their names, or their looks. They might've looked different then but from the damage he gave, they would've been radically changed.

Two years ago.

Just six months before Shiro moved, he was mobbed. Again. Since he beat the Big Bear or whatever the extortion racket's boss was called he'd been hunted down for sport. As the rumours spread, whoever beats the wolf gets the spot on the throne. It wasn't a written rule, but an unspoken agreement.

Shiro cared none of it. What he cared was the people that came to prove their strength. Prove that they have the ability to beat the man who beat their boss and have the rightful ownership to the high chair.

They didn't know what they were doing.

They just came, their heads carried higher than their egos. Knives, bats, pipes and all, coming to bring Shiro's head back as a reciept to claim the chair.

Shiro beat them all. Each and everyone of them.

They were dumb. Didn't know what they were up to.

And Shiro remembered. Each and everyone of them. Not their names. Not their faces.

I couldn't control myself.

But their expressions.

As the cat pounced, Shiro lashed out a punch. It was a simple punch. A simple bunch of fingers closed together and tightened to give the knuckles power. They, together with the power of momentum and speed, delivered a blow towards the pouncing cat's face.

His face blew up in a confetti of fur, bone shards and blood.

He flew right past Shiro and slammed onto the ground face-first, skidding half a meter, leaving a trail of red behind his spilling almost-corpse.

It wasn't enough. The cat was still conscious. Still alive. He would come back. Those who survive always do. They're head strong. Not enough sense beaten into their heads. They won't stop coming unless you break their kneecaps and grind them together till they plead for mercy.

Shiro stepped near towards the body. The cat faced front as he did. The face no longer resembled a face. It was a flayed mesh of skin and fur and crimson dough. His eyes were darting across his twitching eyelids. His nose was dropping to his cheeks. He didn't have lips. A fountain of red was choking from his throat, clogged by his broken fangs.

Not enough.

Shiro dropped to his ankles and rose a fist.

They don't know what they're doing.

So have them learn.

Teach them.

Teach them not to mess with-

"Shlop."

Shiro stopped.

Amidst the spraying red, Shiro heard the word.

"Shlerk."

The cat, limbs limping away from Shiro's crouching demeanor, dragged a cracked voice from his coughing throat.

It sounded like a house glass being crushed in a metal compactor. 

"Shtop."

It didn't, however, lose meaning to Shiro's perked ears.

Stop.

Shiro downed the bottle, practically squeezing every last crinkling bit out of the plastic, feeling every last bit of moisture soothing his throat.

It wasn't enough. It didn't drown the feeling at all. The sour aftertaste still loomed over his insides.

The aftertaste of that one sixtieth of a minute in that dream before Shiro woke.

The cat had an expression in his flayed mesh of a face. His eyes squeezed the last drops of tainted tears, his nose blew out a mess of mucus and feline fluid, his mouth formed shapes impossible for a normal feline to make.

All those broken, queasing features formed a picture unbroken in Shiro's mind, like all the others before.

Fear.

Shiro saw the face. Saw it on the cat. Then he remembered.

Remembered the same face on everyone before the cat.

Shiro could've stopped it now. He has a new life now. A new start. A brand new road to life.

But the Shiro now wasn't the Shiro then.

Shiro broke that expression with the raging fist of his.

Like all the others before him.

The others felt fear. Now, under the full moon, they gathered their fear, culminated into one, tiny but deathly dense capsule and shove it into Shiro's throat.

Guilt.

Never use your fist. It's gone. It's done. You use your mouth. It's a civilized world you live in now, not like that Town. That Town was different. That Town was a dead end. This world is a new start.

The sensation of the punching bag lingered in his knuckles. It felt solid. Felt hard. Felt

irresistible-

Shiro cruches the bottle from the top with both his palms. The agonizing cries of the innocent bottle crinkled the thoughts out of his head.

New city.

Shiro set its twisted corpse back down on the coffee table.

New me.

It's a restart. A new chapter of life.

No going back.

Shiro went back on the sofa and drew the blanket on the floor over his body. He reached behind his neck, using his arm for a pillow.

He stared out of the open balcony. Stared at the full moon. Envisioned his new life under this full moon.

No going back.

He turned to his belly and closed his eyes at five past midnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, that's it for the archive. If you liked the progression, well, too bad. I've discontinued it out of lack of focus and direction.
> 
> I did make a new series, though. Caninstinct, and I'm posting it both on ScribbleHub and RoyalRoad. 
> 
> https://www.scribblehub.com/series/62445
> 
> Link's right above.
> 
> Also, by the time you're reading this, I've already deleted the old series on ScribbleHub.
> 
> Have fun and a good day.


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